In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess

by Hazel Linwood

  There was one person he knew for certain could help him with his predicament.

  He headed out for Uncle Phil’s garden.

  His uncle was, of course, very much about the house, but he tended to keep himself to himself, and Nicholas and he rarely bumped into each other. If he needed to find him, though, he knew he could find him somewhere outside.

  When he was outdoors in the garden, he stood for a moment by the gate, breathing heavily. He felt the same empty sorrow in his heart, like a yawning chasm that swallowed all sound. He didn’t care about anything anymore—not even about the fact that he hadn’t spoken to his father since the incident.

  “Uncle?” he called.

  He spotted his uncle, sitting on a bench under the trees. He had his hat over his face, and he seemed to be asleep in the sunshine. Nicholas tiptoed up, reluctant to wake him.

  He stood across from him, and was still not sure if he slept or was awake. He was about to turn around and leave when his uncle spoke.

  “Nephew, aren’t the chrysanthemums flowering a treat?” he said. “Early this year…I wonder if that means the weather will be colder than usual?”

  Nicholas jumped. He had been so sure he was asleep. He did his best to think of a sensible reply.

  “I don’t know, Uncle.”

  His uncle sat up, pushing his hat to the back of his head. He grinned happily up at Nicholas and moved sideways on the bench.

  “That’s the thing with Nature,” he said with a grin. “Always full of surprises. One never knows what will happen next, until it happens. We can only change with it.”

  Nicholas nodded. He cleared his throat. “Uncle?”

  “A good winter could come after this; and snow is good for crocuses. Sorry, Nephew? What was that?” He looked round owlishly.

  Nicholas took a breath. “I don’t know what’s happening, Uncle,” he admitted. He would have felt foolish, saying that to anyone else. With Uncle, he didn’t mind admitting he wasn’t always in control. His uncle accepted things like that, along with everything else.

  “Nor do I, Nephew,” he grinned cheerfully. “Does anyone?”

  Nicholas felt a faint smile lift the corners of his mouth. “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” he agreed.

  They sat quietly for a while, watching the garden. A butterfly flitted past, reminding Nicholas of the vision he had in another garden. It seemed so long ago now. He recalled what he had seen then—the butterfly, almost crushed. He said nothing, just let the thought sink in.

  “You know, Nephew,” his uncle said slowly. “I started this garden years ago. Wasn’t easy to start. Lots of lumps and bumps that needed flattening, beds that needed digging out, paths to make. It took a long time before it was worth looking at. Things can be difficult, but it doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be attempted.”

  Nicholas turned to look at him. He had to smile. His uncle sometimes seemed as though he wasn’t even listening, and then he came out with something that would take one’s breath away.

  “That’s true, Uncle,” he admitted.

  His uncle looked at him, and now, he wasn’t smiling anymore. His eyes—that strange, translucent gray—were blank of expression, apart from deep sadness. “Nephew, one thing I do know is that there is one thing you should always strive for. And that is love. No matter what the odds, never turn away from it. My life has shown me it is the most precious thing. It is a candle in the darkness, a breath of life inside a tomb.”

  Nicholas felt as if someone had opened the ground up under him and left him floundering without footing. He stared at his uncle, and for the first time saw him in a new way.

  He had loved and lost.

  He glanced at his uncle who had turned back to contemplating the building in front of him, and Nicholas looked out over it with him. Suddenly, he found himself wondering what all of it was about. Was this small copy of an Indian palace a monument to love?

  When he had found his voice again, he cleared it. “Uncle, I thank you for your words,” he said carefully. “But, I still find myself at a loss. What should I do? I think that Lady Martha does not care for me.”

  His uncle looked at him, and the gentleness was back in his countenance again. “One thing I know for sure is that this lady cares for you. From what you have told me, it seems to me as if she does, or why else would she trust you as she does? She might try to bury it, she might be too afraid to bring it into the light. But the love is still there, ready to come out again like crocuses in snow.”

  Nicholas looked at him, and he could see in his uncle’s eyes that he was certain of that. “You are certain?”

  His uncle looked at him fondly, gray eyes warm but deeply sad. “Love never dies, Nephew. Of that I am absolutely sure.”

  He stood up and, wincing, put the weight on his stiff leg and, before Nicholas could say anything more, he headed off into the garden.

  Nicholas stayed where he was, speechless. He looked out over the garden. The work on the building had stopped—the builder’s day off—and the stones reposed in the sunshine, a strange unfinished thing decked with flowers.

  He didn’t know what to say. He had never considered the possibility that Uncle Phil had loved someone and what might have happened. He considered his uncle’s advice seriously.

  I need to at least find out from her what is happening.

  He had not considered the fact that she might be afraid. That was the word his uncle had used particularly. Now that he thought about it, that was the most obvious explanation. He was afraid of his own father, and he had met her mother—he knew altogether too well how formidable a presence she was.

  He stood, dusting off the back of his coat. He was going to ride over there directly and try to find out what was going on.

  He was halfway to the manor when a plan started to form in his mind. Whether or not Lady Martha would agree to see him, he could still speak with Penitence, her maid. He rode off up the path, feeling much better.

  At the manor, he stopped by the gate and looked up at it. He was sure it was his imagination, but already it looked still and oddly menacing. He shivered, feeling as if some bad presence hovered about the place.

  Nonsense—it’s the mist, is all.

  He dismounted and left his horse in the trees, heading up the pathway.

  At the house, he looked around. He was just about to give up on getting in when he spotted a maid, standing by the trading entrance.

  “Good morning,” he said, and she jumped with fright.

  “Oh! Sorry, My Lord! You gave me such a horrible fright, so you did!” She pressed her hand to her chest. “With all these goings-on in this house, who does know what might happen next?” she fanned herself.

  “Goings-on?” Nicholas asked. He instantly regretted what he’d said when the maid’s eyes held a shuttered look. “I don’t mean to pry,” he said instantly.

  “Not to worry, My Lord. Now, are you here on a visit?” she eyed him awkwardly, as if she didn’t believe he was a visitor. He felt a little self-conscious.

  “I must speak urgently with Lady Martha, or with her maid,” he said. “I know it’s irregular, but please…it’s urgent?”

  The woman looked at him skeptically but after a long moment, she stepped around him to the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you,” he said sincerely. But she had already gone into the building again.

  “My Lord?” a voice said urgently from behind him a moment later. He turned around, surprised by it. He had been staring out over the misty garden, lost in thought.

  “Penitence,” he said, shocked by how much she had changed. Her face looked worn and tired and her eyes had dark rings around them. “Have you news of Lady Martha?” he asked.

  “She’s very poorly, My Lord,” she murmured.

  “Is she ill?” he asked desperately, heart thudding. What was going on here?

  “No, no…not ill. Just care-worn and weary. I wish the Earl was here.” He made a face.

  “Is h
e not?” Nicholas asked. He had been sure Lady Martha’s father would have to come down from London. With his wife gravely ill, and one of his daughters sickening, surely he would come at once to their help?

  “No, My Lord. He’s not come down. I am sorely cross,” she said, blue eyes hard.

  Nicholas felt pleased by her display of loyalty, even as he felt angry towards Lord Weston for his neglectfulness. What was he thinking?

  “Please, Penitence,” he said sincerely. “Will you ask her to see me? Would she speak to me, do you think?”

  Penitence looked up at him, and she looked, if it were possible, even wearier.

  “My Lord, I don’t know. All I can say is that she blames herself for her mother’s illness. She might agree to see you, but it would distress her.”

  Nicholas looked at her and he was sure the hope was plain in his eyes. “Please?” he said softly.

  She looked at him directly. “I’ll try.”

  Nicholas’ heart soared. He couldn’t believe how delighted he was, just thinking of seeing her. Even if she was indifferent, even if she was distant. Just seeing her would make all the colors bright in his world.

  He waited under the big spreading tree by the wall—the only place one could not be seen from the windows. After what seemed like an age, he saw her cross the lawn.

  Her face looked thinner and care-worn, as if she’d stayed awake worrying on many nights. She raised her eyes to his own, and he felt his heart wrench anew at her beauty, even as his worry made his heart thump.

  He held out a hand to her, but let it fall to his side when she did not pay it mind.

  “My Lady,” he said softly. “Martha…It is a great gift, to see you. Are you well?”

  She smiled sadly. “I am well. Mama…” she shook her head. “I am worried for her health. Deeply worried. Her recovery is slow. The physician insists that any shock would carry her off altogether. And I would not be responsible for her death.”

  “You couldn’t kill her from worry!” he exclaimed. He instantly regretted the harshness of his words when she raised weary eyes to his face. “Sorry,” he added. “It just seems odd to me.”

  Martha looked up at him. “It might seem odd, but I have never seen her like this. And, in light of it, I think I should not see you more. My mother’s physician insists a shock like that would kill her.”

  “Which physician is this?” he snapped. He couldn’t help the sudden anger that he felt. It would not be Lady Martha’s fault, were her mother to suffer some ill health. And it angered him to hear anyone suggest it.

  “Mr. Lessing,” she said in a soft voice.

  Nicholas frowned. He didn’t know many people in this area, and the name meant nothing to him. All the same, he felt an intense anger towards a person who could induce such fear in Lady Martha.

  “Nicholas, please,” she said softly. He had no chance to say anything else. “I cannot do this anymore.”

  He had nothing to say to that, no words he could offer and nothing to suggest. He wanted to ask her if it was because of her mother; if it was because she felt guilty. But he had no idea what to say.

  “I should go,” he said softly. “I am causing distress to you.”

  She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “No, not directly. It is not my distress that worries me, but my Mama’s. I cannot risk causing her another shock.” She looked pained and he thought she really did seem rather distressed.

  He could see in her eyes the pain that she was feeling and his heart ached. He knew that he was making her feel more pressure and tension by being here. He knew it was best just to go.

  “Martha…please. I will go if you wish it, but if there is anything I can do to help you…anything at all.” He held out one hand, feeling helpless.

  “No. Nicholas, there is nothing. Truly. It is best if you go. Really.”

  He bowed and took her hand in his and pressed it to his lips. Then he turned around and walked back to his horse. He saw her watching him and he did not understand the expression he saw there. It could have been sorrow, anger or relief. He had no idea.

  He mounted his horse and lifted his hand and then rode swiftly down the hill to his uncle’s home.

  Chapter 27

  Martha went up to the drawing room. She felt as if she was in shock. Nothing made sense right now, and she felt empty inside. She walked past the mirror on the side wall and her own face seemed strange to her.

  “What did I do?” she murmured to herself.

  She went out onto the terrace. It was misty outside, and the shifting white and gray matched exactly how she felt: uncertain and lost.

  She had sent Nicholas away.

  She looked out over the garden and thought that she felt nothing. Or, maybe, she felt everything—fear, pain, despair, anger, guilt, grief—and it was all too much to contemplate.

  She stared out into the darkened garden, but nothing there helped her make any further sense of her feelings, and so she drifted back into the drawing room and reminded herself of what she was supposed to be doing next.

  The silver needs checking.

  She drifted down to the dining room to go and open the big cupboard of silver and check it for tarnish.

  “Lady Martha?” Penitence said, walking past her as she drifted down the stairs.

  “What is it, Penitence?” she asked. She felt as if her heart was utterly empty inside. She thought that it might show on her face, because Penitence looked shocked as she lifted her eyes to meet hers.

  “Nothing, My Lady. I just wanted to tell you I’m airing the winter cloaks. I’ve put yours away with some rosemary to keep it free of moths.”

  “Thank you, Penitence,” Martha nodded. She walked away before her maid could ask her what was wrong.

  Downstairs in the dining room, she went through the big case of silver, squinting at the greenish tarnish here and there on knives and forks. She would have to speak to the maid who cleaned it. She made a mental note to go and find her after lunch.

  “Lady Martha?” the housekeeper asked as she walked in, a polishing rag in her hand. “Are you checking that already? Begging your pardon, but your mother was asking for you.”

  Martha shut her eyes, knowing she was in no way mentally prepared for an onslaught from her mother. She nodded.

  “I’ll be there in a moment. Tell Emily she needs to use vinegar on the silver—there’s too much tarnish.” Her voice sounded dead to her own ears, cold and grating.

  “I will, My Lady.”

  Martha walked upstairs feeling as if she drifted in a haze of fog. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. She went up to her mother’s bedroom. Her maid was just leaving.

  “Is my mother awake?” Martha asked softly.

  “Yes, My Lady. She was calling for you earlier.” Her maid raised her brow. Martha could see the reproach in that look and she felt it slip past her—she had no room in her heart for pain.

  I have an ocean of pain there already. What will a little more do to me? Now that I have told Nicholas I cannot see him again, my heart feels empty. What else could hurt me after that?

  She crossed the threshold into her mother’s bedroom.

  “Martha,” her mother said, sitting up. She looked terribly ill, Martha realized in alarm—her face looked more hollow-cheeked than usual, her eyes ringed with dark bags.

  “Mother. You were calling for me?” she asked. She wanted to take a seat by the bedside—her legs were tired after a morning on her feet—but she also felt too nervous to move from where she stood by the foot of the bed.

  “I was. I am afraid I will never be well here. You have caused such fear in me. I cannot leave my house, for fear of what people will think. I cannot bear it…” she started sobbing.

  “Mother, please,” Martha whispered. She felt guilty enough already. She felt as if her mother was sawing a knife across her heart again and again. She looked away.

  “I cannot stay in this house,” her mother said. “I have decided we should leave—go down to
the house in Devon. I cannot stay here. I have decided to draft a letter to the Duke of Dellminster, and insist that Amelia and Nicholas renew their betrothal publicly. Then I can retire to the coast, with you to comfort me.”

  “Mother!” Martha stared at her in horror. “No! I cannot go…with just you…” she groped around for words. It was the worst thing that could happen, for any of them. She couldn’t allow her mother to leave Amelia here alone, with the Duke of Dellminster aware of it so that he could force her into some kind of arrangement. And she would not leave.

  Her mother looked at her, her eyes wide. “And you would leave me here, and let me sicken to death? Without air and light because I cannot go outside and risk a relapse? You would do that to me?” she cried. “You care not at all for me, do you?”