As she spoke she was watching his face, which remained impassive.
“She has, has she not? You would deny it if it were not so!”
“I am not in a position to answer your question.”
“You mean you will not! I must see my mama before I leave.”
“I will enquire this afternoon whether her ladyship will receive you.”
“Oh, she will not! I know she will not! How well is she recovering from her turn, which I don’t doubt was brought on by the companion bullying her or denying her something?”
“She is very much better; indeed so much so that I am hoping she will be able to attend a small dinner I am giving,” Marklye said, answering the question which, in spite of being interposed between imprecations, he recognised as expressing genuine concern.
“Oh!” Lady Benstead exclaimed, startled. “Perhaps, if I remain here for a few more days, I could see her then.”
“Indeed. I will put it to her this afternoon.”
“Oh, I do not suppose she will attend if she knows I am to be here; at least she will not if the companion knows.”
“She has already accepted the invitation. In the circumstances I believe I must make her aware that you will be here.”
Lady Benstead tossed her head. “I apprehend that, if she refuses, you will insist upon my leaving before the dinner.”
“I believe I should be obliged to insist that you take your dinner in a different room if she remains adamant that she does not wish to see you.”
With that Lady Benstead had to be content, at least for the time being.
Lady Leland was sitting in the saloon when Lord Marklye was announced later that afternoon. Mary was not in attendance.
“I am pleased to see you looking so much more yourself,” he said, bowing over her hand.
“I am hoping that I shall be well enough to attend your dinner party,” she said. “Pray sit down, my lord; I hope my daughter is not proving too disagreeable a guest. I assume she is still with you.”
“She states that she is unwilling to leave until she has seen you.”
“Hmn. Have you come this afternoon in answer to my letter or as an emissary from Lady Benstead?”
“Both; I intended to come in any event but, as a result of what she said this morning, I feel I must warn you that she intends to remain until after the dinner party; she hopes to meet you then – at my house.”
“I see. Does she know that Mary will be coming with me?”
He smiled. “No. She assumed not and I did not correct her.”
Lady Leland laughed. “I cannot allow such a deception to go ahead, you know. There would be the most fearful scene. But this little turn I had has made me rather more conscious of my approaching mortality. Sadly, I cannot live for ever and I own I should like to be reconciled with my daughter before it is too late.”
“And she feels likewise. Forgive me, but it seems that Miss Best is the stumbling block.”
“Yes. My daughter has conceived a violent dislike for her.”
“And Miss Best? What are her feelings on the matter?”
“I do not think I am in a position where I can answer for Mary’s feelings. If you wish to know them, I believe you must ask her yourself. You will find her in the garden.”
Mary was walking up and down amongst the roses when Lord Marklye emerged. Not liking to observe her without her knowledge, he coughed.
“Lady Leland said I would find you here.”
“Did she send you to find me?”
“Yes. I spoke to Lady Benstead this morning.”
Mary said nothing but raised her brows interrogatively.
Marklye continued, “She is reluctant to return to her home until she has seen her mother.”
“She has travelled a long way in order to do so.”
“Yes. When I told Lady Leland that Lady Benstead hopes to remain at my house until after the dinner party in the hope of meeting her mother there, Lady Leland suggested I speak to you.”
“For what purpose? Does she seek my permission to meet her own daughter? If so, I do not know why she has sent you as an emissary; surely she can ask me herself.”
“I seem doomed to be an intermediary between three exceedingly obstinate women,” he lamented with a slight smile.
“I am sorry. I have not asked you to intervene. What precisely do you wish to ask me?”
“Lady Benstead supposed that you would not be attending the dinner - and I own that I did not admit that I hoped you would.”
It was Mary’s turn to smile. “No doubt, if you had, you would have been subjected to a bout of hysterics. Are you wondering whether it would be proper for me to surprise Lady Benstead by arriving with Lady Leland without warning her beforehand?”
“Lady Leland thought that would be unwise.”
“I am certain that it would unless you wish there to be fireworks at your dinner party.”
“Perhaps that would be the only way to ensure that you do meet each other. I understand that you knew Lady Benstead some time ago.”
“Indeed? Who told you that?”
“Lady Benstead. She enquired whether you were still so pretty.”
“Good God!” Mary exclaimed, flushing.
“I said I had only known you a short time but that you were – are – indeed excessively pretty.”
“Thank you.”
Mary continued to walk and Marklye kept pace with her. It was some time before she spoke again and, when she did, her voice shook a little.
“My lord, I believe Lady Leland has sent you to speak to me because I am the cause of the rift between her and Lady Benstead.”
“You do not have to tell me anything which you would rather not divulge,” he said gently.
“I believe I do,” she contradicted in a firmer voice. “I will try to be frank. Lady Leland and I were only too grateful when you took Lady Benstead off our hands but it would be wholly improper if we were to take advantage of your kindness without explaining something of the reasons behind our refusal to allow her to enter this house.”
He bowed his head in acquiescence and Mary continued, “Lady Benstead is, as you know, Lady Leland’s youngest daughter. What you do not know – and no doubt wonder at – is why she should have taken me in such dislike and why Lady Leland insists upon taking my part although it has resulted in her separation from her daughter.
“The day you drove me home in your curricle you guessed something of my past. You were quite right that it had something to do with a man.” She paused briefly but, as he did not interrupt, she was forced to continue.
“I ran away with him and was brought home some days later by my brother-in-law, who left no stone unturned to find me – for which I have learned to be grateful. My parents, thinking no doubt of my sisters and their futures, refused to take me back and announced to the world that I was dead. My brother-in-law offered me a home with him and my sister but, as she was imminently expecting a happy event and was not at the time in robust health, Lady Leland stepped in and suggested I come here instead. I do not, as it happens, recall being asked for my opinion on the matter.
“You may wonder why her ladyship behaved in such a charitable fashion towards a ruined girl: she is in point of fact my grandmother and felt it to be her duty to offer me a home. It remains only to confirm what I daresay you have already guessed: Lady Benstead is my mother.”
Chapter 33
It was a long time since Mary had owned Lady Benstead as her parent – as long as it was since her ladyship had disowned her daughter. Saying the words gave Mary something of a shock: she knew them to be true but she had put the fact behind her, shrouded it in a past into which she never looked for fear of falling and becoming lost for ever amongst the jagged rocks of memory.
Lord Marklye heard the words, uttered in a flat tone which he suspected masked a tumult of long-suppressed emotions. Like a child who has known for some time the precise nature of the longed-for gift his parents have so carefully hi
dden, he found himself uncertain how to respond. He wanted to satisfy Mary and reassure her, not only that her confidence had found a worthy guardian, but also that he at least partially understood the complexity of her feelings and something of the reasons for the longstanding concealment of her identity. Shock would give the wrong impression but absence of astonishment might be almost as bad.
“You do not seem surprised,” she said when he did not reply immediately. She did not pause but continued to walk, as though by advancing along the path she could leave the confession behind.
“Not altogether,” he admitted. He stopped and she was forced to do likewise if she did not wish to leave him standing. He took her hand, which was cold as ice in spite of the warm day, and enclosed it within both of his.
“Lady Leland’s obvious affection for you, her decision to alter her will in your favour and her marked desire to protect you, together with Lady Benstead’s question about your appearance all betray a deep attachment – on both their parts. In addition,” he added, gaining confidence when she neither snatched her hand away nor burst into tears, “One cannot help remarking that you all bear a remarkable physical likeness to each other. Since you are breathtakingly beautiful, one is unlikely to miss the resemblance. Lady Benstead is still an unusually good-looking woman.”
“Is she? I noticed from the window that she had retained her figure but I could not see her face.”
“When it is not distorted by tears it is exquisite.”
She nodded but did not trust herself to speak.
He tucked her hand into his arm, retaining hold of it with one hand, and resumed walking until they reached a stone bench when he drew her down beside him.
“Were you afraid that I would be shocked?” he asked.
“Not precisely; you had, after all, already guessed what I did which led to my being cast out – that is the shocking thing. For the rest, since I am supposed to be dead, I rather thought I no longer had the right to lay claim to Lady Benstead as my parent.”
“What was your original name?”
“Miranda.”
“You were well named, but I have grown accustomed to ‘Mary’ – a hitherto unremarkable name which always seemed a trifle inadequate to describe someone so dazzling.”
“Indeed. Miranda was dead and Mary seemed eminently suitable for a companion – not uncommon and used by persons of all ranks. It did not in any way draw attention to me.”
“’Best’ is a vastly more appropriate choice,” he said, smiling.
“That was ironic,” Mary explained.
After a pause she went on, “I hesitate to ask you to do yet more for my tiresome family but I wonder if you could see your way to attempting a reconciliation between my mother and grandmother. I am certain that my grandmother retains a deep affection for her daughter in spite of the rift which has opened between them on account of her having taken my part; and, although Lady Leland and I have complained of my mother’s constant letters – mostly begging for money and distressingly smudged with tears – I believe that Lady Benstead retains an attachment to her mother and, now that my grandmother’s health has become precarious, it is time that they were reunited. If I absent myself, I don’t doubt that they could be brought to speak to each other and perhaps even – in the end – embrace.”
“Where would you go? I would offer you the protection of my home – chaperoned by Mrs Porter – were it not that I already have your mother under my roof.”
She laughed a little hysterically. “Shall we both set out at the same time so that our carriages cross somewhere between your house and Lady Leland’s?”
“That is a possibility but I think we should try to effect a reconciliation between all three of you. Since, from my observation, Lady Benstead is the one least open to reason, I suggest that I approach her first and, if I succeed in persuading her to sit in the same room as you for half an hour or more, I think we may judge there to be grounds for optimism.
“I wish that it may be so,” she admitted. “But I doubt if even you in your most heroic guise will be able to accomplish such a thing. My mother will most likely remain adamant that I am dead.”
“And your grandmother?”
“She is by no means such a tough nut to crack as she is not only generally open to reason but not at all inclined to take refuge in either tears or spasms.”
“Shall we ask her if she would like me to try my luck?”
“By all means – if you are certain that you do not object to acting as intermediary.”
When, presently, the Viscount and Mary rejoined Lady Leland and told her what had passed between them, she said, “It would make me very happy if we could all three bury the hatchet and be reconciled but I think it only fair to warn you that you will have your work cut out to persuade my daughter to listen to reason. She will say – and do – almost anything to get her own way, including taking refuge in spasms and vapours, which generally have the effect of causing her adversaries to retire from the field.”
But here Marklye chose to argue, showing indeed a surprising degree of sympathy for his guest. He said, “I do not like to contradict you, my lady, but it strikes me that Lady Benstead has rarely had her own way and is still vainly trying to achieve it. I do not wish to criticise your papa, Mary, but I do not believe I am telling you anything you do not know when I point out that, so far as I can see, he has not been kind to her and she finds herself in the horrid position of being obliged to beg for her bread on account of his extravagance.”
“I cannot argue with that, although I think it unutterably sad. Mama does not possess a strong intellect, Papa does not appear to possess the ability to curtail his selfishness and neither seems able to compromise. Theirs has not been a happy marriage; indeed, so miserable did it appear during our childhood that my eldest sister was determined not to marry at all for fear of suffering a like fate; and it is the reason you can be certain that I would never look at a man like Mr Armitage. He reminds me far too exactly of my progenitor. I do not hold out much hope that Mama is capable of change; her manner of dealing with life’s frustrations is, I fear, fairly deeply entrenched, but, if she is prepared to allow me to sit in the same room for half an hour, I am willing to meet her; that is, if your ladyship feels strong enough to sustain the strain of what may transpire.”
“If that is what you want, by all means let us put ourselves in the hands of our intermediary,” the old lady said. “I daresay he will not permit anyone to engage in fisticuffs although I doubt he will be able to control the raised voices or head off an attack of the vapours. I would advise you, my lord, to arm yourself with sal volatile and a quantity of handkerchiefs.”
Marklye, whose expression had undergone a startling change since the mention of Mr Armitage, said “Are you quite well enough recovered to face such a severe test, do you think, Ma’am?”
“Certainly; I cannot, after all, be much disappointed since I hope for very little. Go and arrange it. You had better bring her here and we will receive her together.”
Later that evening a message was delivered to Lady Leland confirming that Lady Benstead had consented to the meeting and that he would bring her after breakfast the following day – a time when he hoped she would not yet have been rubbed up the wrong way by anything else.
When his lordship and Lady Benstead were announced by Clarkson, the grandmother and granddaughter were waiting, somewhat rigid, in their chairs, the old lady very straight, the young one gripping her hands together so tightly that the knuckles showed white.
Lady Benstead entered the room first. She wore a blue morning dress together with a cream-coloured spencer and a bonnet trimmed with artificial forget-me-nots. An interesting flower to choose, Mary thought, but doubted that her mother was aware of their aptness. She retained, as Marklye had noted, much of her original beauty, although it had a tragically ruined quality which struck Mary to the heart. Her hair, framed by the bonnet, was in the process of changing almost seamlessly from gold to sil
ver and the blue of the forget-me-nots almost perfectly matched her eyes.
“Mama?” Mary said, her voice quivering; she had not expected to be so moved by the sight of her mother and could not help addressing her in the old way.
“Miranda! Oh, how beautiful you have grown! I do believe you have more than fulfiled your early promise.” Lady Benstead responded, tears starting to her eyes as she ran headlong towards her daughter.
“Not a patch on you, Mama,” Mary declared as her mother’s arms enfolded her for the first time in more than ten years.
“My felicitations,” Lady Leland mouthed at Lord Marklye over the two fair heads. “I did not believe you would be able to pull it off.”
“It did not take much,” he murmured.
When it was Lady Leland’s turn to embrace her daughter, Lord Marklye quietly left the room.
Mary, hearing the soft click of the door, followed and found him halfway down the stairs.
“You are leaving?” she called after him.
“Not altogether,” he replied, pausing and allowing her to catch up with him. “I brought your mother and feel responsible for taking her back unless she decides to remain here, in which case I will instruct her maid to pack up her effects and send them over; but I must await orders. I did not like to leave until I was certain that there would be neither fisticuffs nor screams; it is not for me to sit in on the transports of delight.”
“No, I suppose not, although they would not have taken place without your intervention. Can I offer you some refreshment while you wait? We could go into the garden or repair to the small saloon.”
“I will wait in the garden; it is not necessary for you to attend to me; I promise I shall do no harm.”
“That thought never crossed my mind!” she exclaimed, beginning to move, in her accustomed manner, from gratitude to annoyance in short order.
“I was jesting,” he said pacifically.
“I apologise! But you should not be astonished that I am not in the mood for jests.”
Mary Or The Perils 0f Imprudence Page 29
