by Mira Stables
She seemed a shy, spiritless little thing, very young and obviously overawed by the circumstances of his visit. Her correct curtsy and the wooden formality of her greeting were evidence only of the submissiveness to which, his father had claimed, she had been trained. Probably the hint of breathlessness in the soft voice and the slight quiver in the cold fingers that rested briefly in his clasp were a more accurate indication of her feelings. He felt again that faint flicker of pity for her helplessness. It was irrational, for no one could force the girl into marriage if she was really unwilling, but she was certainly uncomfortably placed with her juggernaut of a grandfather exerting all his energies to force her consent and only this drab little cypher of a companion to give her womanly guidance in the making of a wise decision. Some shadow of the tenderness that he kept for Deborah caused him to relax a little the cool arrogance of his bearing, softened the bitter set of his mouth. He exerted himself to coax his prospective bride out of the paralysing shyness that seemed to have bereft her of the power of speech. He had considerable social address and, when he so chose, a pleasant easy manner that lent warmth and interest to perfectly commonplace remarks. By the time that they had dealt faithfully with the vagaries of the weather, the discomforts of travel at this season of the year and, on a higher intellectual plane, the deliberations of the politicians at present assembled in congress in distant Vienna, Fleur was so far restored to her normal poise as to be able to take a modest share of the conversational burden and even to spare part of her attention for covert study of Mr Blayden’s appearance.
Her acquaintance with the male sex was limited. Apart from her grandfather, the vicar of the parish and the rather ineffectual dancing master at school, she had a bowing acquaintance with such of the local gentry and yeomanry as were members of the hunt. In all her short life she had never met such a man as Marcus Blayden at close quarters. Save for his height and his athletic figure, he was not in the least like any of the dream heroes of her girlish fancy. In features, air and bearing he bore far too close a resemblance to his father. She had always been repelled by Lord Blayden’s high-bred air of cool indifference to the affairs of less exalted folk. The son had the same cold grey eyes, heavy lidded beneath level dark brows. His strongly marked features seemed to indicate a masterful disposition, and though his voice was deep and pleasant and his present manners conciliating, there was no hint of softness in the lines about his mouth. He would be an ill man to cross, thought Fleur, paying little heed to the remarks that he was addressing to Melly, but, if looks were anything to go by, a staunch ally in time of need. For despite his soft speech and languid bearing there was about him an aura of scarce-contained energy, a power and magnetism that was new and exciting to the inexperienced girl. She sensed it plainly enough but could not be sure whether it attracted or frightened.
A pause in the placid flow of talk roused her from her absorption. Melly was regarding her with a censorious air, while about Mr Blayden’s mouth there hovered for the first time the suggestion of a smile. She coloured guiltily, aware that she had been caught frankly staring at him.
“Mr Blayden was enquiring if you would care to drive out with him tomorrow to visit his sister,” said Melly severely.
“That would be d-delightful,” stammered Fleur confusedly. How could she have allowed her thoughts to stray so far? “I have seen Miss Blayden in church and have often wished to make her acquaintance.”
“She does not go about very much,” explained her brother, and went on to speak of Deborah’s frail health and of the pleasure that such a visit would give her, privately calculating how much longer he must endure this boring exchange of inanities. Miss Pennington might be as meek as his father had claimed. It seemed to him that they had knocked all the spirit out of her, if, indeed, she had ever had any.
He was presently able to revise this opinion. Discussion of the arrangements for the proposed drive caused Miss Pennington to say wistfully that she had never driven in anything more exciting than her grandfather’s carriage. Did Mr Blayden drive a curricle or, perhaps, a crane neck phaeton?
Mr Blayden, admitting to the possession of a curricle, regretted that he had left it in Town when he received his father’s summons north, but pointed out that the inclement weather would, in any event, have rendered its use ineligible for the proposed expedition.
He was immediately aware that the careless mention of his father’s summons had been a blunder. The eager interest that had so transformed the small pale face vanished and it seemed for a moment that she was about to withdraw once more behind the barrier of punctilious civility. Fortunately a happy reference to the matched chestnuts that he was accustomed to drive in Town was sufficient to distract her. As he spoke of their perfect manners and high spirits and answered eager questions about their age, conformation and breeding, it became apparent that Miss Pennington had vitality and intelligence enough when her interest was fairly caught. She wanted to know what horses he was driving today, but as Lord Blayden had recently reduced his stable he had to confess that they were only hirelings and nothing out of the common. Whereupon she invited him to go with her to the stables to inspect an animal that was, she ventured to think, very much out of the common.
Mindful of her employer’s instructions, Miss Melling raised no objection to this proposal, merely insisting that her charge should put on a warm pelisse before venturing out of doors. For her own part she proposed to stay snugly by the parlour fire, which she proceeded to do, a little anxious still for Fleur’s future, despite a pleasant first impression of Mr Blayden’s personality, but comfortably aware that she had fulfilled her orders to a nicety.
But a stable, however well kept, is scarcely the best setting for exchanges of an intimate nature. Even had he wished to broach the delicate business that had brought him visiting at High Barrows, Mr Blayden would have been sorely put about to find a suitable opportunity, for in addition to the deep interest in his arrival displayed by Miss Pennington’s groom and a couple of stable lads supposedly occupied in cleaning tack, there was Mr Pennington’s coachman, hospitably determined to play host to so distinguished a visitor to his domain, while the girl herself was so absorbed in pointing out the virtues and qualities of the bay mare that her grandfather had just given her for her seventeenth birthday that she seemed quite oblivious of the fact that his visit had been paid with the avowed intent of making her an offer of marriage.
There was an emergent twinkle in Mr Blayden’s cool grey eyes as he said all that was proper in praise of the mare and of several other equine friends who came to snuffle eagerly and hopefully at the girl’s hands and whose soft eyes regarded her reproachfully when her pockets were shown to be empty. Mr Blayden took a firm step in her esteem when a search of his pockets produced several grubby-looking sugar lumps. He offered them rather shamefacedly, assuring her that it was not his habit to call on ladies with pockets so furnished, and that if he had brought his own man with him to Blayden he would certainly not have been suffered to do so, but Miss Pennington, accepting the proffered bounty with enthusiasm and sharing it with scrupulous fairness between her several pensioners, was clearly disposed to think well of a gentleman who came calling so sensibly equipped for any eventuality.
So powerfully did this small incident work upon her feelings that it was not long before she was chattering away gaily as though she had known him for ever, pouring into an amused and tolerant ear a dozen confidences that, in the absence of a sympathetic listener, had never previously found utterance. The bay mare, he learned, was really called Chérie, though Grandpapa, who detested all things French, not so much from innate patriotism as because the French wars had jeopardised certain business interests, believed the name to be Sherry — “Because of the colour, of course.”
“A natural enough assumption,” agreed Marcus solemnly, watching the play of light over the mare’s rippling hide. And then, tentatively, “Is Mr Pennington so formidable that such deception is necessary?”
The girl
laughed quite naturally. “Why, no! He is, perhaps, a little rigid in his notions. And since his rages are very uncomfortable for anyone within earshot, one does not choose to ruffle him without good cause. But I would not have you think me afraid of him, so good as he is to me.”
So she is not being constrained against her wish, thought Marcus, reading far more into the simple remark than the speaker had intended, since she had spoken from instinctive loyalty rather than conviction. In that case he might as well pursue this rather odd form of courtship. He decided to venture upon a mild compliment.
“For my part,” he said lazily, “I cannot assent to his dislike of all things French. The flowers of France, for instance, are quite delightful, and mingled with our sturdier stock produce blooms of rare charm.”
Her reaction to the careless flattery surprised him. He had half expected so young and inexperienced a damsel to be thrown into confusion — blushing, stammering, protesting. Miss Pennington eyed him with a calm shrewdness strongly reminiscent of her grandsire and favoured him with a tiny unsmiling curtsy. For a moment he wondered if she was so slow-witted that she had not caught the allusion, but her curtsy was clearly intended to acknowledge the compliment. She was not imperceptive — she was just unimpressed. Slightly nettled, for though he held the hyperbole of compliment in tolerant scorn he had thought the play on the girl’s name not ill-chosen, he awaited her reply with interest.
“You must not think that I am ashamed of my French blood,” said the lady kindly. “It was awkward at school, of course. I disliked being called Froggie. And some of the girls were jealous because I was the show pupil when French speaking was in question. But one grows accustomed and I no longer stand in need of consolation.”
The rebuff was unmistakable. The friendly youngster who had talked so eagerly of her horses had withdrawn behind a barrier of cool reserve. In his deeper consciousness Marcus was aware that there must have been a considerable degree of hurt to have left a wound that still could not endure the lightest touch, but at the moment his paramount feeling was annoyance at having laid himself open to such a set-down from a chit scarce out of the schoolroom. Masculine pride demanded that he make a prompt recovery.
“That was scarcely my intention, Miss Pennington,” he said smoothly. And then, in easy colloquial French, “Though I cannot lay claim to French blood I have a considerable fondness for that lovely land. My mother’s sister married a Frenchman and as a child I spent many months in her home in the Loire country. Childhood attachments die hard. I had hoped, in your society, to revive them.”
The words had scarcely left his lips before he regretted them. Why use so weighty a weapon to crush so frail an adversary? And why, above all, admit a stranger, even if she was a prospective bride, so far into his confidence? But it was done, and he must abide the consequences.
The stiff little face broke into such a medley of confused emotions that he realised for the first time how tight a hold the child had kept on them. There was surprise, of course; there was guilt and apology mingled that she should so have mistaken him. But above all there was excitement and delight at hearing her mother’s tongue spoken as she had not heard it since that mother’s going.
Words bubbled from her eager lips in tumultuous disorder. “I did not know — pray forgive me — I thought it was just a silly compliment. You will think me conceited beyond belief — I should have guessed you would not stoop to such foolish nonsense. And you have been in France and know and love it as Maman did. Oh! You cannot imagine how wonderful it is to hear you speak her language as she did. But yes! You do know. It is as you have said — that childhood fondness dies hard.”
She, too, had lapsed into the dear familiar tongue, mobile lips and fluttering hands betraying her French ancestry in a gay abandonment of the sober way of speech and gesture in which she had been so carefully drilled. They strolled back to the house. Shaken completely out of her shyness and distrust, she was her natural self. He found her warmhearted, generous and comical by turns. His good opinion of her grew and he found himself pitying the loneliness that made her catch so eagerly at congenial companionship. His father had chosen better than he had dreamed. There would be no hardship in taking to wife this ardent clear-minded child. It did not occur to him that his attitude was that of a kindly elder brother; that he had never even considered her as a woman but rather as an appealing and faintly pathetic waif whom he was willing to take under his protection.
Very different was Miss Pennington’s reaction. She had summoned all her forces to meet and reject an unwanted suitor. Instead she had found a veritable Prince Charming. Impressed at the outset by Mr Blayden’s dark distinction, lulled by his easy courtesy and delighted when he showed an understanding of horseflesh that outmatched her own, his easy use of her mother tongue and his obvious affection for the French way of life proved a clincher. Without hesitation she tumbled head over heels in love with him. Rapturously would she entrust her life into those strong slender hands, whose casual touch, as they automatically proffered the courtesies due to a lady, sent such exquisite sensations thrilling through her responsive young body.
Nor did it occur to the lady, in her innocence and inexperience, that almost any personable young man who chose to single her out for particular attention might well appear in an unduly favourable light.
Chapter Five
MARCUS’S stipulated week passed swiftly. Perhaps it could not truthfully be said that he furthered his acquaintance with his promised wife — for the marriage was now agreed — but at least they spent as much time in each other’s society as convention permitted, and succeeded in spending it quite pleasantly. The weather favoured them. Three days of warm sunshine swelled the willow buds, brought out thousands of aconites and snowdrops in the park at Blayden, and encouraged the betrothed pair to ride together daily and even, on one occasion, to persuade Deborah to accompany them in a gentle amble over the soft turf. Fleur was quietly but ecstatically happy; Marcus comfortably resigned. The wedding day was fixed, and though February was a sad month for such a function and the notice almost indecently short, Mr Pennington did not despair of seeing his reception rooms well filled. The very haste of the arrangements and the fact that his grand-daughter was marrying the heir of Blayden would titillate the curiosity of the local gentry. It was generally known that High Barrows offered its guests every conceivable luxury — such dishes as must tempt the most jaded palate and wines of the very finest vintage. Yes. They would come. They might raise their eyebrows and whisper and smile behind their fans. But they would come.
Only Miss Melling had reservations as to the nature of the marriage that was to follow — for a wedding is one thing, a marriage quite another. To her quiet good sense this one seemed a very unequal business. Because her love was so new-sprung and strange, Fleur cradled it close in her heart. Her manner towards her betrothed was pleasantly undemonstrative so that no one else appeared to realise that she had given all her young adoration to the attractive stranger upon whom her grandfather had chosen to bestow her hand. But Melly knew. And Melly deeply deplored the fervour that glowed in the great grey eyes when they rested on her idol. The child was bemused, as helpless in the grip of first love as any sacrificial lamb. Mr Pennington saw only the prompt submission to his will — and plumed himself upon his excellent management. Lord Blayden permitted himself the faintest sigh of gratification that his difficulties were in a fair way to being settled. Only Melly foresaw the tragedy that might lie ahead if Mr Blayden proved unworthy. But since she could do nothing to prevent the marriage she kept her doubts and fears to herself and devoted her energies to the practical problems that must be solved if all the arrangements were to meet with Mr Pennington’s exacting demands. The marriage was being pushed on with insensate haste, thought Melly indignantly. Did he fear that one or other of the contracting parties might yet cry off? And went off to oversee the sewing maids who were working frantically on Fleur’s wedding gown.
Still the mild weather held. Pa
le February sunshine blessed the pale little bride who went timorously but hopefully to her wedding in the quiet village church. Lord Blayden had urged the use of the private chapel at Blayden for the ceremony, but private chapels were one appurtenance of the aristocracy that Mr Pennington did not approve. As became his standing in the neighbourhood, he was a professed member of the established church but he came of sturdy non-conformist stock and private chapels, to him, smacked of popery. The marriage would take place in the parish church and everyone should see that all was open and above board and nothing havey-cavey. Lord Blayden, who had hoped to avoid such public association with one whom he privately designated as a money-grubbing cit, was forced to accede. Time enough to take a stronger stand when the knot was duly tied.
The events of her wedding day never seemed quite real to Fleur. Even her mirror showed her a stranger. That was not Fleur Pennington — that tall slender creature clad in white silk and muffled in a hooded cloak of white velvet. The swansdown that lined and edged the cloak lay like frozen snowflakes against the darkness of her hair. She might be the ice maiden of Maman’s fairy tales rather than a warm and living girl.
Melly, hovering anxiously about her, re-arranged the hood and put a posy of snowdrops into her hands. The child looked pale and overwrought. Melly was not much given to romantic metaphor. Perhaps it was the emotion aroused by a wedding that caused her to liken her charge to a windflower, a plant that flourished best in quiet secluded places, delicate and pure. Devoutly she prayed that the girl might also have the resilience, the powers of endurance of that seemingly fragile flower. She stooped and dropped a light kiss on the pale cheek.
“I must go now. Your grandfather is waiting for you in the library. You have ten minutes before you need set out,” she said, and whisked herself out of the room to make last-minute adjustments to her own toilet before hurrying to take her place in church.
