Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  “It is you,” he said. “I’m not imagining it.”

  “Please step aside, Lord Robert.”

  “I knew it. I knew it. Those eyes, that hair—there’s never been hair like that, like copper fire. Marietta—Marietta—I’ve never forgotten you.”

  There was a whining note in his voice as he spoke these last words. I remembered the handsome, arrogant lord who had stalked through the rooms of the house on Montagu Square like some magnificent, predatory panther, and it was hard to associate that man with this stout, puffy-faced creature who reeked of port. He was still in his early forties. I calculated, yet he looked much older. The past seven years hadn’t been kind to Lord Robert Mallory.

  “Agatha left me,” he said, as though reading my mind. “She took Robbie and Doreen and moved to the country. Agatha—she, she controls the money, Marietta. She always did.”

  “I seem to recall that.”

  “She sends me a pittance each month, expects me to live at Montagu Square on next to nothing. I can’t even keep servants. They refuse to stay. There’s no one. All my friends have deserted me.”

  He shook his head, as though unable to comprehend such a thing. There was a nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  “There were gambling debts,” he continued, “a lot of them, and I couldn’t pay my bill at the club and—” He hesitated, looking at me with bloodshot eyes full of entreaty. “It could have been so good for us, Marietta.”

  You poor fool, I thought. You poor, deluded fool.

  “I often thought of you, wondered what happened. I—I didn’t want to do it Marietta. I didn’t want to plant those emeralds in your bag. It was Agatha. She made me. She said if I didn’t go along with her she’d tighten the purse strings, stop paying my bills.”

  “I see.”

  “I felt bad about it,” he whined. “I wanted you so.”

  The last time he had seen me I had been in chains, wearing rags, a felon convicted of theft and sentenced to fourteen years of indentured servitude. Besotted with liquor, afloat on a sea of self pity, he didn’t seem to find it at all unusual that I was back in London, that I was dressed in splendor Lady Agatha could never have matched, nor had he shown the least bit of curiosity. Lord Robert had never been concerned with other people. They existed merely to serve him, to satisfy his various needs and appetites. He hadn’t changed at all in that respect. He was still totally immersed in his own world, a world that had crumbled all around him, and he couldn’t see beyond it.

  “It isn’t too late for us,” he said.

  My God. My God. Was he that far gone? Was he that great a fool?

  “We could start over, Marietta. If only you’d forgive me, we—”

  “Forgive you?” I said. “I should thank you, Lord Robert. Because of you I met the man I love. Because of you I’m an extremely wealthy woman.”

  The words didn’t seem to register. “Come back with me.” he pleaded. “Come back to Montagu Square.”

  “Goodbye, Lord Robert,” I said.

  “Goodbye? You don’t mean—”

  “I’m in rather a hurry.”

  His dark eyes were full of pain, full of entreaty. “You can’t leave me. I have no one. I’m all alone. I have no money—”

  He seemed on the verge of tears, eyes welling, the corners of his mouth beginning to quiver. I looked at this pathetic ruin of a man with stale powder on his hair, run-down garments on his bloated body, and I should have felt a sense of ironic justice. I should have felt great satisfaction at how the tables had turned, but I didn’t. Reaching into my reticule, I pulled out all the money inside and thrust the folded bills into his hand. Then I walked briskly toward the entrance. He called my name, the word an anguished plea. I moved on without looking back, leaving him with the private demons that would soon complete their destruction.

  By the time I reached the White Hart I had already put the encounter out of my mind. Lord Robert Mallory belonged to the distant past, and I was concerned with the future now … and with the immediate present. Had Jeremy returned? Would he be in the taproom when I went down to dine? Tibby was in my bedroom when I entered, turning down the bedclothes and laying out a sheer, pale golden nightgown she had taken from one of the bags. She gave me a cocky, merry grin and told me she’d bring me a bedwarmer before I retired.

  “Gets nippy, it does,” she said. “Your feet’d be like ice without a ’ot brick wrapped up in flannel. I’ll just slip it under th’ covers in case you’re still dinin’.”

  “Tibby, has the gentleman I arrived with come back yet?”

  “You mean that ’andsome, saucy fellow with th’ blue eyes? No, he ’asn’t. I was in ’is room just a few minutes ago, makin’ everything cozy. Know what ’e told me this mornin’? ’E told me I was so tiny ’e’d like to put me in ’is pocket and take me ’ome with ’im. Such cheek! Will you be wantin’ anything else, miss?”

  “I don’t think so, Tibby. Thank you.”

  Grinning again, a charming creature not a full five feet tall, she bustled out, scurried through the sitting room and closed the door noisily behind her. I removed my hat and gloves, ran my fingers through my hair, and, a few minutes later, went down to the taproom to dine. It was cozy and pleasant with framed prints on the paneled walls, candles glowing, small bowls of flowers on all the tables. Heavenly aromas wafted in from the kitchen. There were few diners, for it was still a bit early, and I received special attention. I was quite hungry, but when my roast beef and Yorkshire pudding arrived I ate very little of it and turned down the raspberry treacle. My appetite had vanished. I kept looking toward the door, afraid he might wander in, dreading it.

  I was just leaving the taproom when I saw him entering the lobby, moving in that long, bouncy stride. I stepped back in the doorway, praying he wouldn’t see me. His rich brown hair was windblown, attractively tumbled, and his cheeks had a healthy flush as though he had been walking briskly. He was wearing pearl-gray breeches and coat, a dashing maroon and white striped satin waistcoat, a sky-blue neckcloth. His coat flapped loosely, tail swinging as he strode to the stairwell and moved up, disappearing from sight. I waited several moments before following. His door was closed as I passed down the hall, and I heaved a sigh of relief as I reached my sitting room.

  It was almost eight. Perhaps he had already dined. He knew London extremely well. Perhaps he had a favorite restaurant. He must have many friends here. Female? Of course. Those glamorous older women, those depraved countesses. Why should I care? I didn’t. Of course I didn’t. No doubt he would come rapping at my door later on tonight to ask how my day had gone. I would be very cool, very polite. I sat down on the sofa, composing myself, waiting, and at ten o’clock I went into my bedroom and undressed, a quivering, tremulous feeling inside. Slipping into the filmy, pale golden nightgown, I folded my clothes carefully and put them away and then put out all the lights.

  True to her word, Tibby had placed the hot brick under the covers at the foot of my bed. I stared at the dark ceiling that was gradually mottled with silver as moonlight streamed into the room. The windows were open. A bell tolled somewhere in the night. Sleep wouldn’t come, and it must have been well after midnight when I finally got out of bed and stepped over to one of the windows, resting my folded arms on the sill and gazing out at the city. London was lovely under a black sky marbled with silver gray, clouds floating slowly. Below everything was black and gray and dark brown with tiny yellow-orange squares where lights glowed. Steeples and spires rose, bathed in moonlight, the dome of St. Paul’s a soft, silvery blur, Tower Bridge an inky black sketch against the lighter sky.

  The night air was cool, chilling my bare arms, and soft tendrils of hair blew against my cheeks as a cool breeze stirred. The curtains on either side of me billowed, lifting, falling, lifting again with a whispering sound. I searched the sky for stars, but none were visible. Would I ever see stars again like those gleaming in Texas? Such stars, such.… I forced the thought from my mind. In the morning I would
begin the final journey. In less than twenty-four hours I would be in the arms of the man I loved. I had come so far so far, and it was so close now. At last we would be together … but where were the stars?

  Thirty-Six

  Ogilvy nodded, smiled politely and swung the last trunk up onto his shoulder as though it weighed no more than a feather. He carried it out through the sitting room and clumped noisily and purposefully on down the hall. Dazzling silver-yellow sunlight streamed in through the bedroom windows. We were going to have a beautiful day for traveling, Ogilvy had assured me, and, indeed, the sky was a pale, cloudless blue-gray. It was not yet eight o’clock, I hadn’t slept more than an hour or so during the night, and Tibby had brought me coffee and a buttered sweet roll shortly before seven, indignant when I refused a more substantial breakfast.

  I had dressed with care, had paid my bill, had left a generous tip for Tibby. There was nothing more to detain me. Ogilvy would be strapping the bags on top of the coach now and, in a matter of minutes, would be ready to depart, yet I lingered still, reluctant to leave the room. He knew I planned to leave this morning. Surely he was awake. Surely he would at least say goodbye. Was he so bitter he couldn’t bear to endure that final courtesy? It didn’t matter, I told myself. I would have preferred us to part as friends, but if he wanted it this way, it was probably best.

  Stepping over to the mirror, I made a final inspection of myself. My hair had been brushed to a coppery sheen and carefully arranged for the hat I had yet to put on. Deep mauve shadows tinted my lids, the result of so many sleepless nights, and a subtle application of rouge accentuated my high cheekbones and relieved some of the pallor. My lips were a deep, natural pink. Would Derek find me changed? Did I look older? Had the experiences of this past year left an irrevocable stamp? The eyes that stared back at me seemed a darker blue, sad, disillusioned, eyes that had seen far too much and would never again shine with that youthful sparkle of expectation.

  The gown, at least, was perfect. The form-fitting, deep black velvet bodice had a low, square-cut neckline and long, tight sleeves, while the skirt that belled out over half a dozen bronze underskirts was of the finest satin with narrow stripes of black, bronze, mauve, royal blue, and turquoise. The black velvet hat with its high crown and broad, slanting brim had a huge spray of bronze, pale mauve, and royal blue feathers spilling down on the right side, held in place with a turquoise bow. I put it on, fastening it carefully, pleased with the tilt that exposed a stack of sculpted copper waves on the left, three long ringlets dangling down to rest on my left shoulder.

  A bell somewhere nearby tolled eight times. I could delay no longer. Leaving the room, closing the sitting room door behind me, I moved down the hall. His door was closed. He was probably still asleep. I went on downstairs and through the lobby, stepped out onto the cobbled courtyard where the coach stood waiting. It was a modestly elegant vehicle of light golden brown, two sturdy bays stamping restlessly in harness, their coats gleaming a rich reddish-brown in the brilliant morning sunlight. Ogilvy had strapped the trunks and bags on top in a neat pyramid, a large, unfamiliar basket tied in front. He was wearing fresh brown livery, and the heavy black cape spilled down from his broad shoulders. He smiled, opening the door, and I saw the plush interior with seats covered in heavy fawn velvet.

  “I gave everything a good goin’ over this mornin’,” he told me, “polished things up a bit. I took the liberty of bringin’ a lunch basket, ma’am. There’s no decent wayside inn ’tween ’ere and there, and I thought we might stop and eat by the road, give the ’orses a rest.”

  “That will be lovely, Ogilvy.”

  “See that little window up there, right behind the driver’s seat? It opens up. You need anything, want to give me instructions or anything, you just open it and speak up. I’ll ’ear you.”

  “Fine. I suppose we’re ready to leave.”

  “Guess we are,” he said.

  He smiled and took my hand, ready to help me inside. Jeremy strolled out of the inn and came toward us. Ogilvy released my hand and, polite and deferential, moved to stroke the horses’ heads as Jeremy joined me. I looked at him, silent, not knowing what to say, and he was silent, too, gazing at me for a long moment with eyes that were no longer remote, eyes filled with tender emotions that belied the pain. The moment passed and still we did not speak, not in words. I felt as though an invisible hand clutched my heart, squeezing tighter and tighter, and there was a lump in my throat.

  “So you’re off,” he said quietly, at last.

  I nodded, looking into his eyes. There were so many things I wanted to say, but I knew I would never be able to say them now. The hand squeezed my heart. I swallowed, forcing the lump to dissolve. Somehow I managed to compose myself and assume the polite, distant manner I knew would be my only defense against the emotions welling inside me.

  “I want to thank you, Jeremy,” I said. “I want to thank you for all you’ve done.”

  “No thanks required,” he replied. “You finally convinced me to take half the money, remember? I’ve been well paid for services rendered.”

  There was another silence. It seemed to last forever.

  “What are you going to do now, Jeremy?”

  “In a week or so I’m leaving England. I’m going back to America. There’s a spread of land for sale in Texas, adjacent to Randolph’s. Randy showed it to me, encouraged me to buy it, build a house, go into partnership with him. I told him I’d think about it.”

  “You’re going to settle down?”

  “Figure it’s high time,” he said. “I can’t think of a better place to do it in. You remember the land. We were there.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “That night, Marietta. After the wedding.”

  The memory was a stabbing pain. I looked away from him, desperately striving to retain my composure. The horses stamped. Sunlight splattered the brown cobbles, bathed the front of the inn. Tibby had stepped outside, and Ogilvy had joined her near the door. They were flirting outrageously, Tibby twisting her apron in her hands and looking up at him with a cocky grin and a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Three geese ran across the courtyard, honking noisily, the proprietor’s small son racing after them. In control again, I turned back to Jeremy.

  “I’m glad you’ll be in Texas,” I said. “You’ll be with friends.”

  “Randy, Chris, Em, too, for that matter. Look forward to seeing them again. A man needs friends around him.”

  “You’re going to build a house?”

  “A big house,” he replied, and a quiet smile played on his lips. “I’m a rich man now. I can afford it.”

  “I hope you’ll be happy, Jeremy.”

  “I haven’t given up,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I still hope you’ll come to your senses.”

  “And—see what is in my own heart?”

  “That’s right. I haven’t given up. I’ll be here at the White Hart for a week. I’ll be hoping. I’ll be waiting, Marietta.”

  “Jeremy—”

  He touched my cheek lightly, the smile soft on his lips, his blue eyes tender, gazing into mine as he stroked one of the long ringlets that dangled down to rest on my shoulder. The polite, remote stranger was gone, and the man who stood so near was a Jeremy I had seen only rarely. I seemed to melt inside. I bit my lip, looking away from him again.

  “Goodbye, Jeremy,” I said in a tight voice.

  “I’ll be waiting,” he repeated.

  I climbed into the carriage and settled back on the fawn velvet seat facing the front of the vehicle. Jeremy closed the door and moved back as Ogilvy told Tibby goodbye and came over to climb up onto the driver’s seat. He said something to the horses and clicked the reins. The carriage began to move. Tibby waved from the doorway. Jeremy watched with hands thrust into his pockets, the heavy brown wave dipping over his forehead. I realized it was the last time I would ever see him, and there was another stabbing pain. I turned away from the windo
w, unable to bear it, and soon we were out of the courtyard and moving down the street, in the thick of the morning trafffic.

  London passed by the window, gorgeous marble facades, rows of shops, parks, slums, brown and gray, swarming with people, and I saw it all through a blur. I took several deep breaths, jostled about as the carriage clattered over a particularly rough stretch. The wheels made a lighter, whirring sound as we moved over a bridge. I could see the Thames below, the water a turgid blue-gray with several barges docked along the embankment like flat brown boxes, bobbing gently. We passed several large warehouses, more slums, and before too much longer the city was behind us and there were trees and rolling green fields with sheep grazing on the horizon.

  I would forget him. As soon as I saw Derek again I would forget everything but the joy I had been waiting for for such a long time. I felt better now that we had left London. The worst part was over. It was only natural that I should feel this sadness, only natural that I should feel a part of me had been left behind. I had felt the same way when I had left Em in Texas, when I had left New Orleans and Mandy and Lucille. One by one the chapters of my life had been closing, becoming the past, and Jeremy belonged to the past now, too. The future was ahead, waiting for me at Hawkehouse, the future I had dreamed of and had come so close to realizing before it was brutally wrested from me on a dock in New Orleans. All that had happened since that night would cease to matter once we were in each other’s arms.

  Ogilvy slowed as we passed through a small village. I saw tan stone cottages with steep thatched roofs, kitchen gardens with cabbaged and beans, a blacksmith’s shop, a pub of buttery yellow brick, thatched like the cottages, a painted sign swinging over the door. A hefty blonde girl in blue dress and apron carried a pail of milk across a yard, Three old women in shawls gossiped listlessly as they drew water from the pump in the square. A man led a cow by a rope, taking it toward a pasture. Beyond the village there were fields of hops, the vines draped thickly over wooden trellises that bowed from the weight. The sunlight was even brighter now, streaming down in dazzling rays, and a few fleecy clouds had appeared, floating lazily across the sky.