How to Cross a Marquess

by Jane Ashford

  The group from Clough House also brought a new member, a slender boy soon identified as the old gentleman’s grandson. Parishioners murmured that this visit must be pleasant for the old man in his sickness. He hadn’t been seen in church, or anywhere else, since being felled by the apoplexy.

  The vicar’s sermon that day added to the excitement of the occasion. Rather than his usual homily on responsibility or compassion, he stated that his subject would be Cuthbert, the area’s patron saint and, he declared, the savior of England. “For after this holy man’s death and the many miracles due to his intercession, Cuthbert came in a dream to Alfred, known as the Great, King of Wessex. Alfred was then engaged in a mighty struggle against the Danes, invaders from over the sea.”

  The vicar paused and raked the congregation with his gaze. Roger, directly under his eye in the front, was taken aback. Reverend Cheeve was usually the mildest of men, but today his green eyes burned with fervor.

  The man shook back the wide sleeves of his surplice, put a hand on either side of the pulpit, leaned forward, and continued. “Calling himself a soldier of Christ in this dream, Cuthbert told the king what he needed to do. Alfred must arise at dawn and sound his horn three times. Cuthbert promised that by the ninth hour, the king would have assembled five hundred men. And within seven days Alfred would have gathered, through God’s gift and Cuthbert’s aid, an army to fight at his side and vanquish the Danes. And so it happened. The battle was won. And England was not conquered.”

  Roger stifled an impulse to applaud. Cheeve might have been rousing a fighting troop rather than preaching. Far more entertaining than his customary platitudes. The vicar did circle back after this to relate his story to his listeners, urging them to put their trust in the lord. But the jolt of energy he’d provided remained in the air. Roger put a bit extra in the collection plate to show his appreciation. He also congratulated Cheeve on a fine sermon as he passed through the church door after the service.

  Outside, Roger came face-to-face with Fenella Fairclough, for the first time since their invigorating reel at the Prouses’. And he couldn’t help thinking that she looked particularly pretty this morning, curvaceous and assured in a deep-blue gown that echoed the hue of her eyes, with a shawl falling artistically over her shoulders. Her face, half-shaded by a chip straw bonnet, reminded Roger of an antique cameo. If such a piece of jewelry could shift expressions like wind passing over water, he amended.

  The press of people leaving the church urged him on, and they moved away together. “This is my nephew John Symmes,” she said, indicating a dark-haired boy at her side. “Greta’s son. John, this is Lord Chatton, a neighbor of ours.”

  “You live in the castle,” said the boy.

  “I do.”

  “John is spending his holiday with us,” Fenella added.

  “Ah.” Seeing his mother and houseguest ahead, Roger moved toward them. “We have a visitor as well. Up from London. Lord Macklin, may I present Miss Fairclough and…” But young Symmes had faded into the small crowd between one step and the next. He appeared to be gone.

  Roger’s mother offered happy greetings, and Macklin acknowledged the introduction with his habitual composure. Roger was about to suggest that they depart when Harold Benson edged around Macklin, plump and furtive to the earl’s tall and distinguished. Indeed, the self-appointed historian was half crouching, so that his rotund figure looked even more squat. “I’m avoiding Cheeve,” he informed them. “He thinks I can guarantee him the part of St. Cuthbert in the pageant, but I can’t. That decision is not up to me. He’s wasted his oratory.”

  Benson moved so that Roger was between him and the church door, where the vicar still lingered. “But I have been asked to speak to you again, Lord Chatton. And also to Miss Fairclough. I’m happy to find you together. There’s a scene in the pageant that is part of a Viking raid on the Lindisfarne manor, and the committee wondered, hoped, that you two might enact it. As a gesture of support for the enterprise. To help make the venture a success, you know. And reflect well on the neighborhood.”

  Despite this blatant hint, Roger started to refuse, but Fenella spoke first. “What sort of scene?”

  “A Saxon noblewoman repels the Viking attacker with a broom.”

  “A broom?” asked Fenella.

  “She bashes him on the side of the head,” replied Benson. “Naturally we would take care—”

  “I could do that,” Fenella interrupted.

  “I’m sure you could,” said Roger. “And enjoy it, too. I don’t intend to be bashed, however.”

  “The Viking prevails in the end, of course,” said Benson. “He sweeps her up and carries her off and, well, there is another bit, but we could make adjustments.”

  “Throws her in the midden?” Roger suggested. “Or the pigsty perhaps?”

  “After she kicks him in the face, repeatedly?” said Fenella.

  Benson looked taken aback. “Whatever the exact, er, outcome, I’m glad to put you down as settled for the roles.” He whipped a small notebook from his coat pocket, pulled out a stub of pencil, and made check marks on a list inside.

  “Wait,” said Roger. He noticed Macklin and his mother watching this exchange with interest. His mother leaned over to whisper to the earl, who would soon know all the history with Fenella that there was to know—from his mother’s point of view, Roger thought.

  “Rehearsals begin day after tomorrow,” said Benson.

  “Rehearsals!” repeated Roger and Fenella in unison.

  “Just a moment,” said Fenella.

  “Cheeve’s spotted me,” said Benson. “I must go.” He ducked sideways, scuttled along the path through the churchyard, and more or less ran away.

  “Oh dear, I was going to ask him about taking a role myself,” said Roger’s mother.

  “I suspect you’ll have your chance,” said Macklin.

  Without meaning to, Roger met Fenella’s sparkling blue gaze. She was clearly irritated and amused and resigned. And why did he imagine he saw so much in a glance? Roger wondered. He couldn’t possibly. He was very bad at such perceptions. And yet he was certain. Roger felt an odd inner tug of emotion. He couldn’t identify it. And when he had been so sure about her feelings, too. That made no sense. And it was dashed uncomfortable. He turned away toward his waiting carriage.

  * * *

  On the other side of the churchyard, shielded by a tall monument, Sherrington Symmes, known at long last as John, was kicking pebbles onto the plinth when an older boy walked around the obelisk and joined him.

  “Hullo,” he said.

  John merely nodded. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

  “My name’s Tom,” said the newcomer.

  John kicked a larger rock. It struck the base of the monument, bounced back, and tumbled off into the grass.

  “‘Dedicated to the memory of Malcolm Carew,’” Tom read from the stone. ‘“Beloved husband, respected father.’ They all say something like that. Have to, once they’re dead, don’t they?”

  John felt a spark of interest in the newcomer.

  “I mean, you never see a gravestone saying ‘rotten husband, mean old dad, and all-’round clutch-fisted blackguard.’ Ain’t done.” He consulted the inscription. “Plenty old when he died. I suppose nobody shells out for a great spike like this if they didn’t like the fellow.”

  John laughed. “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Tom,” the other repeated.

  “Tom what?”

  “Dunno.” The older boy shrugged. “Don’t got a last name.”

  “But how can you not?”

  “I don’t remember my parents. Grew up scrambling, like, on the streets of Bristol.”

  John’s interest increased by leaps and bounds. “My name is John Symmes.”

  “Grandson of one of the local gentry,” Tom answered. “I heard.”
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br />   “You live around here?”

  “No, come up for a visit. With Lord Macklin.” Leaning out, he indicated a tall, somewhat intimidating-looking gentleman amid the parishioners.

  John tried to figure out their association. Tom didn’t seem like a servant exactly. But he couldn’t be a relation of that high-nosed man. Not with the history he’d mentioned and the way he spoke. Still, better to err on the side of the complimentary. “Are you his grandson?”

  Tom laughed. “Not hardly. I’m… Well, I don’t rightly know what. I heard his secretary call me ‘the earl’s current project.’” He grinned.

  It was an immensely engaging grin. John felt a tug of liking for this older, homely boy. Which was a rare experience in his life. “What does that mean?”

  “I reckon Lord Macklin wants to make something of me.” Tom’s grin widened. “Not going to work, howsomever.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You ain’t alone in that. Do you like walking?”

  “Walking?”

  “Tramping about the countryside. I’m partial to it myself. Like company, too. You could come along.”

  “I’m not allowed out by myself.” Much as it pained him, John had to admit it. He felt it simply wouldn’t be right to lie to this new, intriguing acquaintance.

  “Well, you wouldn’t be. You’d be with me. You could tell that aunt of yours that I never get in trouble. I’m right careful. And we’d just be looking about, ye know. ‘Reconnoitering,’ they call it.”

  “It isn’t Aunt Fenella. It’s Wrayle.”

  “Rail?”

  “He’s my jailer.” John enjoyed saying it. Daring to say it.

  “Eh?” said Tom.

  “They call him a servant, but he isn’t really.” Now that he was launched, the words went faster. “My parents assigned him to watch me.”

  “Why?”

  There was something about Tom that made you want to be honest with him, John thought. He hoped they could be friends. He would like that very much. But Tom had to know the truth first. That was the only way it could be. And so, although his heart sank, John proceeded to tell it. “I like snakes,” he said. “They’re quite interesting. And when we were last in London, I found a shopkeeper who sells exotic animals. He had a boa constrictor!” John’s enthusiasm for his subject swelled. “A sailor brought it back from the Americas. Fed it on rats on the ship. It was a quite small specimen, really, and they’re not poisonous.”

  “Boa constrictor,” repeated Tom as if interested in the sound of the words. “That’s a kind of snake?”

  John nodded. “So I bought it and sneaked it home. To observe and learn, you know. But it got loose from its cage somehow, and it…” He stopped, swallowed, and then rushed on. “It ate my little sister’s new kitten.” Here was the depth of his disgrace. John saw again the horror in his sisters’ eyes, heard the heartbroken weeping. He cringed.

  “Yer joking.”

  John looked for signs of disgust in Tom’s face, and found none. He shook his head.

  “Ate it, you say? I’d think a kitten could outrun a snake.”

  “Constrictors throw their coils around their prey and crush them before they swallow them.” The kitten’s tail, still protruding from his snake’s mouth, had been the terrible, irrefutable evidence that sealed both their fates.

  “Garn!”

  “I never meant it to get near the kitten! Indeed, I don’t know how it escaped my cage. I promise you the wire mesh was quite sturdy.”

  Tom nodded. “What happened to him?”

  “Who?”

  “The snake.”

  “Oh. One of the gardeners killed it. With a hoe. Chopped it into four pieces.” John felt a lingering sadness at this summary execution.

  “Huh.”

  There was no sign of withdrawal on Tom’s homely face. John’s relief made him brave. He drew in a breath and took the risk. “What’s Lord Macklin?” he asked.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “What’s his rank?”

  “Ah. He’s an earl.”

  John’s mind worked. “If I told Wrayle that you’re here with an earl, perhaps his ward, he’d likely give me permission to go for a walk. Wrayle’s a dreadful snob.”

  “I ain’t his ward,” replied Tom. He seemed to dislike the idea.

  “No.” Disappointment threatened to engulf John. “But Lord Macklin is feeding and housing you, isn’t he?”

  “For the present.”

  “And you’re not a servant. He doesn’t pay you wages?”

  “No. Didn’t want ’em.”

  “So you’re practically his ward. Let me tell Wrayle.” John didn’t wish to beg, but he found this terribly important.

  “Well.” Tom pursed his lips. “I suppose it’s all right.”

  “I’ll speak to him when we get back.” John’s spirits soared. “Perhaps we could go walking tomorrow?”

  Tom nodded. “I’ll come ’round and fetch you.”

  Three

  Fenella hadn’t meant to attend the rehearsal for the Lindisfarne pageant. She’d determined to send her regrets to Harold Benson, pleading a press of duties and the exigencies of her father’s illness. However, a note from the man in charge of the performance had put paid to that idea. If she’d known Colonel Patterson was supervising, she would have made her refusal clear to Mr. Benson at the first mention, Fenella thought. Now it was too late. The colonel, a hero of Waterloo and scion of an ancient noble family, was expecting her, and one did not go back on a promise to him. The idea of seeing disappointment in the upright old man’s eyes when they next met made Fenella shudder.

  She’d told herself that Chatton wouldn’t appear, and so this whole scheme would come to nothing. But there he was, walking toward her across the wooden floor of the village hall—rangy, frowning, with his red hair agleam in a ray of sunshine, automatically the center of attention even in this crowded room. She’d seen him more often in the last week than in months before that, and his renewed presence was reviving memories at an increasing pace.

  The heir to Chatton Castle had been a wild boy, careening over the countryside with his cronies, brandishing wooden swords and makeshift shields, racing their ponies along the beach. Fenella, burdened by her father’s criticisms and hemmed in by her mother’s rules, had envied them their loud, heedless freedom. She’d watched them from out-of-the-way corners at children’s parties, not knowing what to say. She’d fumbled for conversation when they were older and thrown together at neighborhood assemblies. Not that she’d often been asked to dance. And then came their fathers’ disastrous attempt to marry them off, which broke her life in two. Fortunately, Fenella thought. She was grateful for her time in Scotland and her grandmother’s insistence that she “grow a spine,” as the old lady had put it. She was glad she’d risen to that challenge, happy with the woman she’d become.

  “I wasn’t going to do this,” Chatton said when he reached her, echoing her thoughts. “But then I heard from Patterson.”

  Fenella nodded.

  “And as my mother immediately pointed out, one does not say no to the colonel.”

  “I feel as if I’ve enlisted.”

  Chatton laughed. “Or been taken up by Harold Benson’s one-man press-gang.”

  “If he’d said it was Colonel Patterson…”

  “I imagine he’s careful not to.” Chatton smiled at Fenella as he hadn’t in a long time. “I was surprised Patterson took on this job. At least we know the thing will run efficiently.”

  This statement was amply confirmed as they watched a bit of the rehearsal. The colonel had lined up a group of local men and informed them that they were a procession of monks moving to the sound of a harp and chanting. They were to walk meditatively, with their hands in the sleeves of their monks’ robes and their heads bent in the hoods. Si
nce there were as yet no robes, and no harp or chanting, this proved problematic. Also, the colonel once or twice strayed into a parade-ground roar that caused two of the men to snap to attention and salute.

  “I always think of Colonel Patterson as a large man,” Fenella murmured. “But he isn’t.” Indeed, he was shorter than most of his amateur actors, but so upright and energetic that he seemed bigger. A lined face and white hair didn’t matter in such a dominating personality, she thought. His plain blue coat, riding breeches, and boots gave the impression of a uniform.

  “You feel as if he’s carrying a swagger stick,” said Chatton. “Even though he isn’t.”

  “I wonder what happens if someone doesn’t follow his orders?” Fenella replied.

  “I don’t think we want to find out.”

  They exchanged a look that held more sympathy than they’d shared before. She was surprised at how gratifying this felt.

  The time came for their scene. The colonel allowed a moment for greetings, shaking Chatton’s hand and offering Fenella a nod and a glance from twinkling gray eyes. Then Fenella was given a much-used broom from the back of the hall and told to imagine that she was standing under a stone archway in the ruins of the old abbey on Lindisfarne. “Rush up to her like a marauding Viking,” the colonel said to Chatton.

  He trotted over.

  “A Viking,” repeated the colonel. “Bent on looting. Bristling with weapons. More than likely spattered with the blood of murdered monks.”

  Chatton blinked. He tried it again.

  “You aren’t at a tea party!” growled Colonel Patterson. “Have you heard the phrase ‘ravening horde’? You’re part of one.”

  The marquess bit his lower lip—whether in chagrin or to keep from laughing, Fenella couldn’t tell. He backed up, gathered himself, and essayed another rush, baring his teeth and shouting, “Charge!”

  “Charge?” echoed the colonel.