by Valerie King
That particular day, she had left her aunt’s home, restraining the tears which had started to her eyes. She had been calm at the beginning of the journey, but he knew her, that she had held one last hope that she might be able to return to the society in which she had been raised, and that hope had been crushed.
“For the boy,” she had pleaded. But Aunt Phillips had remained implacable. Neither of them had seen the Romneys since. His mother had died some seven years past.
The feeling which had been generated in him in that moment had remained to this day, an overwhelming need to revenge all his mother’s hurt on such prejudice wherever he found it, even if it dwelled in the woman he had desired to make his wife.
As the coach finally drew to the front door, Lord Anthony quickly stripped off his coat.
Sir Roger thought it odd. “Why ever are you doing that?” he asked, laughing.
Lord Anthony shrugged as the footman opened the door and he descended the coach. “I am in no mood to be chased by your dog. I shall simply give him my coat and be done with it.”
Sir Roger, jumping to the cobbles slung an arm about his friend’s neck. “Tonight, I shall be before you, my friend, and shall call Churchill off before he has even begun. I owe you that much.”
“What for?” he asked, craning his neck to look at his fiend.
He released Lord Anthony. “For losing my temper this evening and exposing you to every form of ridicule this valley will undoubtedly heap upon my head, and thereby yours, through no fault of your own.”
“I don’t give a fig for that,” he said. “You are my friend. She was damned insulting. Even I understood that much.”
“You might not be so forgiving, Tony, if Wistfield’s doors are closed to you forever.”
“Eh, what’s that?” he asked, suddenly appearing distressed.
“Thought as much,” Sir Roger said. “You are quite taken with her, are you not?”
His whole countenance softened like a bowl of porridge. “Pretty little thing. She hates dogs.”
As the front door opened, Churchill’s growl could be heard.
Sir Roger nudged Lord Anthony. “I wouldn’t say disparaging things of the canine species of the moment,” he whispered. “If Churchill takes it as an offense, even I may not be able to help you.”
Lord Anthony’s eyes opened wide, and regardless of Sir Roger’s promises to be of use to him tonight, he extended his coat toward the faithful mutt.
Sir Roger took hold of the coat, called Churchill to his side, and not another growl was heard.
“Looked like a fish,” Lord Anthony said, as the trio began their ascent to their bedchambers.
“Churchill?”
“No, Mrs. Rockingham, when she came the crab. Never seen eyes bulge like that. Thought they would pop right out of her head.”
At that, Sir Roger laughed outright. “You, my friend, have always known exactly what to say to me.”
“Yes, I have,” Lord Anthony responded.
Sir Roger cast a quick glance at him. He often wondered if there was a glimmer of brilliance in his friend that did not generally appear. In this moment, if he did believe what he said, then there was more to his friend than he had ever truly comprehended.
***
Chapter Six
On the following morning, Madeline awoke slowly, her mind caught between dreaming and waking so that she was acutely aware of the dragon Sir Roger had set upon with but a sword and shield in hand, astride a magnificent black horse. Part of his face had been painted with a bluish hue and his black hair had grown very long, like his horse’s mane. He wore only his kilt and a loose muslin shirt. Even his feet were bare. Back and forth he battled the great beast calling out incomprehensible challenges, his countenance lit with a fury she had heard was peculiar to the Scots. The dragon was a red and gold monster, breathing fire and roaring like a furious wind. She was surprised that he was not in the least afraid. Indeed, he seemed almost taunting in his demeanor.
A final bold slash and the dragon fell hard to the ground, flames extinguished, smoke curling from quiet nostrils. Sir Roger was not even injured, not the smallest bit, she marveled as he wheeled his horse toward her. A moment later, she was in his arms and he was kissing her quite furiously. But the kiss ended abruptly and a moment more he was laughing, astride his horse again, and racing off into the clouds.
Only then did Madeline’s eyes open. Only then did she realize she had been dreaming. How real it had all seemed, the colors, the sounds of the beast, the feel of Sir Roger’s lips on hers. She sat up and touched her lips, thinking and wondering. She had the same sensation she had experienced last night when she had realized that everything was changing without the smallest heed for her wishes.
She drew in a deep breath very slowly and calmed her nerves. She had been agitated since the terrible events of the night before, especially by her father’s words on the return trip to Fairlight. Later, she had fallen asleep concerned that he viewed her as a lady who always saw things in a harsh, unforgiving light, for that was how she interpreted his use of the term “darkly.” Did he possibly know how his comments affected her?
She folded her hands on her lap and stared at her fingers. She was six and twenty and unmarried, an apeleader by most standards. She was mistress of Fairlight Manor; all the servants deferred to her arrangements and sought her opinion even before her father’s. When her mother had died so unexpectedly of a putrid sore throat, she had stepped into her shoes and cared for the manor, as well as all three of her younger sisters. She had become a sober young woman, certainly not given to frivolous activities or thoughts but she hoped she was not so serious as to fail to enjoy a variety of things.
Besides, how could her father be so unkind as to lecture her about seeing things “darkly” when he was the one, through his wretched gaming in Brighton, who had cast the family into the most desperate straits possible? She thought it most unfair of him.
Yet even in light of these reflections, which ought to have been of some comfort to her, she could not be at ease. Sir Roger had asked her why she did not smile more. Even Squire Crawley had said something of a similar nature.
She felt such ruminations, however, to be of little effect and decided it was time to quit her bed and begin her daily routine. She rang for her maid, then returned to her bed, where she began slowly unbraiding her long blond locks. Her thoughts had become suddenly fixed on Sir Roger again, on the way he had appeared in her dream and how she had felt watching his efforts in battling the dragon. She had felt in awe of him in that moment and something more, something she could ill define.
At the same time, an inexplicable fright descended on her, like a cold sea wave washing over her. Her heart increased its cadence and she found it difficult to breathe. She could not keep the kilted image of Sir Roger, sword in hand, an expression of triumph on his face, from sweeping through her mind. She struggled to find her breath and to keep it. What had her dream meant, truly, and why was she suddenly so fearful?
When a scratching sounded on her door, she jumped. She pressed a hand to her chest, realizing that her maid had arrived. At least the presence of her abigail would serve to divert the incomprehensible thoughts pummeling her brain. As her maid began arranging her coiffure into the familiar pattern of a loop of braids at the crown of her head with a few scattered curls about her face, she could not help but frown. What was it Hope had said to her only last night? Why must you dress as though you are being sacrificed to the gods?
She was not so prosaic nor so sour in temperament as all these comments seemed to bespeak, surely. Regardless, after she was presentable, she meant to seek out her father. She may have become confused about many things since last night’s debacle, but of one thing she was perfectly certain: she could not wed Sir Roger no matter how great his fortune. Bringing him into fashion was a hopeless task, and even Lady Cottingford herself could not manage so monumental an object.
An hour later, she found her father playing a
t billiards. He smiled broadly when he saw her, his green eyes dancing as they usually did. “I see your expression. You’ve grown out of patience with me and mean to ring a peal over my head.”
“What nonsense is this?” she said, forcing a smile to her lips. Perhaps everyone was right. Perhaps she should smile more. “I did need to speak with you on a matter of some import, but not to come the crab, I promise.”
He slung his cue and the balls clacked against the sides of the table. “You relieve my mind exceedingly. But how do you go on? Did you sleep well last night? My dreams chased me from midnight until dawn, and I must confess I woke up feeling as though I had wrestled with a bear.”
Madeline thought of Sir Roger and the dragon, but decided it was best not to share anything of such a bizarre nature with her parent. “I slept well enough. Indeed, I feel quite rested.” Since her knees had begun to quiver, she thought it best to plunge on and bring forward the pricklish subject of her need to be married. “I was wondering, however, if you would not mind discussing our, er, difficulties. After last night, I have concluded that, regardless of the enormity of Sir Roger’s fortune, I could not possibly marry him. His quarrel with Mrs. Rockingham precludes it, of course.”
At that, Mr. Piper stood his cue upright and straightened his shoulders. “Do you mean to quit before you’ve begun? Yes, yes, I know his terms were rather harsh, but nothing you cannot manage, of that I am certain. Good God, Madeline, when you were but a chit of sixteen you took hold of the reins of Fairlight and brought us safely back to the stable. If you could do that, I have every confidence you could bring one handsome, if a bit surly, knight into fashion.”
“But even you must admit that he all but ruined his chances of being invited anywhere by quarreling with Mrs. Rockingham.”
“I did not say your task had not been made the more difficult, but I will always maintain that Sir Roger was badly provoked.”
She did not wish to entertain his arguments again. “Be that as it may, I have been thinking that I might apply to Captain Bladen. He is come into a snug inheritance, if all the rumors are true. It is even bandied about that he is preparing to purchase Maresfield House.”
Mr. Piper leveled his cue again, took aim, and struck another ball. “I am persuaded the size of his fortune has been exaggerated.”
“It is numbered at over a hundred thousand in the funds.”
“He is a man of expensive tastes, Maddy. Have you not seen the fine tailoring of his coats? And I vow I have not seen a man in possession of more snuff boxes than he. I am persuaded he would not like to give up his fortune, even for your sake.”
She wished he would not speak so crudely of his losses, or even so indifferently, particularly when it was her future which had been tossed into the wind because of it. “I would at least like to apply to him,” she offered. “With my dowry, we are in need of less than thirty thousand pounds.” Her heart gave a hard squeeze as she spoke the dastardly figures into the air.
He pursed his lips. “I will not permit you to quit your campaign with Sir Roger, at least not yet.”
“But I am persuaded I cannot love him,” she stated firmly.
“Now, puss, don’t go lifting your chin to me. Besides, I know you’re telling a whisker. You’ve been head over ears from the moment he first came to Chilchester.”
Madeline blushed horribly. “It is no such thing, Papa,” she said. “Oh, how could you think anything so vile?”
“Vile, you say,” he countered. “Let me tell you, I should welcome such a son-in-law into my home any day of the week, and should he develop even a particle of affection for you, I should think you would congratulate yourself one day out of two for your good fortune. He’s not a man to settle for any of these weak little kittens we have about Chilchester. No, indeed. So why he has taken a fancy to you, I’ll never know. Not but that you didn’t have a great deal of spirit when you were a child, but now—”
“Papa,” she said. His words had stung her deeply.
He tossed his cue onto the green baize and quickly rounded the table. “There, there. I did not mean to hurt you.” He embraced her fully and she settled her cheek against his shoulder.
“But you meant every word of what you said,” she mumbled into his brown coat. “Is that how you see me? A weak little kitten?” She drew back and looked into his eyes.
She saw the answer and felt ashamed, then suddenly withdrew from him. “How can you say any such thing to me, when I have borne all that I have borne these many years and more? Do you think I cherished the notion of having my girlhood obliterated in the wink of an eye? Do you think I relished the opportunity of speaking with Cook every day for the past ten years about menus and Mrs. Linch about linens and servants? Do you think it pleased me to talk to my sisters every night the way Mama was used to do when all I could think was how much I needed her? I will not permit you to call me any such horrid thing. If there is weakness, what of your recent ramble through Brighton’s best houses, where you lost all that had been given to you?”
Far from offending him, as she had thought her heated words might, a slow, crooked smile twisted his lips. “I stand corrected in every essential.”
“Then I shall go to Captain Bladen at once.”
“You cannot,” he said as she turned toward the door.
She lifted her chin. “And why ever not?” she demanded to know. “It is what I wish.”
He pursed his lips anew. “Because . . . because I told you a Banbury tale about the amount I lost. It is quite nearer to, well, twice the figure I originally confided.”
Madeline’s jaw fell slack and a sickening dread fell over her. “Twice,” she said.
He lowered his gaze and hung his head. “I fear it is true.”
“Papa,” she murmured, horrified. “You wagered more than even our estate is worth?”
He nodded, still not lifting his eyes to her.
“Oh, dear God,” she mumbled. She could not discuss the matter further with him and quickly left the room. She was too shocked, horrified, and angry beyond words to even look at him. He had all but forced her into her present predicament with Sir Roger.
As she continued down the hall, she seriously considered returning to the billiard room and of telling him she meant to become a governess on the instant and that he could bear the burden alone of having disgraced his family so completely. However, she chanced to pass by the drawing room in that moment and saw three heads all bent over their various projects: Charity and her needlework, Prudence transposing a ballad into a more suitable key, and Hope pressing leaves she had collected near Balfriston yesterday.
She understood her duty all over again and addressed her sisters in her composed voice. “We will be leaving for services in an hour.”
“Yes, Maddy,” three voices intoned.
She moved on, her pace slow, her temper diminishing to a flicker. She would not complain in her spirit, not one more moment. She was not the first young miss to have faced such a difficulty, nor would she be the last. Sir Roger it was then. She could only wonder what her mother would have thought of seeing even one of her daughters reduced to such stratagems and prevarications.
~ ~ ~
At noon, Sir Roger stood on the bottom step of the dungeons, his coat slung over his shoulder. He had come here with the intention of hefting the sledgehammer two or three hundred times in order to provide some relief for the aggravation he was experiencing. But as he glanced about the dark chamber, he saw not half-crumbled walls and dust drifted everywhere, but row upon row of wine bottles, hundreds of which he had been told to begin ordering immediately from France.
He could not help but smile. He gave Madeline Piper credit for that much. She had succeeded in opening at least one door to him, although she had done so by making use of a whisker or two. Of course, he had done his best last night to seal that door shut again, so perhaps he would not have to order the wine after all.
Realizing that he could not begin smashing another wall
just yet, he turned around and began to mount the stone steps.
He regretted sorely his cutting remarks to Mrs. Rockingham even if she had deserved every word. He had gone beyond the pale and had in that respect used Madeline very badly indeed. Though he had tried a score of times to assuage his conscience where she was concerned, he could not. Maybe a part of him desired her to feel the weight of societal disapproval, just as he had over the past several months, but still he could not be content. He felt obligated, perhaps because he had a certain affection for her, to make amends. But how?
Once descending the hill from the castle keep, he set his feet in the direction of Fairlight Manor.
When he reached the bridge which crossed River Fairlight, the southern boundary which separated Pelworthy from Mr. Piper’s manor house, he caught sight of a young lady just rounding a bend in the lane, emerging from a thicket of shrubs surrounding an old elm. He smiled suddenly, for it was Madeline, sporting a pink bonnet and wearing a white summery frock. Had she read his mind? Did she know that he needed quite desperately to offer his apologies?
Watching the dirt lane as she was, she did not see him until she lifted her eyes. She stopped as one startled. Then, with a determined settling of her shoulders, she advanced toward him. He frowned, wondering yet again about her. He confessed he did not comprehend her in the least. Presently, she was as sober as a vicar on Sunday morning. Had she come to ring a peal over his head?
“Good morning,” he called to her as she drew near.
“Sir Roger,” she returned in blunt acknowledgment.
“Have you marched this way in order to give me the dressing down I so severely need?”
