Mariel

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Mariel thanked a maid as her hat and cloak were taken. She felt the thickness of carpet beneath her feet and smelled the undisguisable scent of gas burning overhead. Listening quietly to Phipps’s whispered description, she hid her astonishment.

  Her companion described quickly the pair of rooms she could see opening off the central hall. They were furnished as richly as any room at Foxbridge Cloister. Images of the overcrowded chambers of the parsonage, filled with castoff, threadbare furniture, contrasted with this wealth. She wondered what other surprises of Ian’s past would be revealed during this trip.

  When he suggested they might wish to explore the house in the morning after a good night’s sleep, she acceded. She was tired, not physically, but emotionally. Like a procession of ducklings, they followed the butler up the stairs.

  Phipps urged her lady to rest. She would put the child to bed. With a weary smile, Mariel agreed. In her dreams, she might be able to escape the dread churning her stomach to spasms. She kissed Rosie good night and promised to join her in the morning to peek into all the corners of the house.

  A maid opened the next door along the corridor. “My lady?” Awe filled her voice as she spoke. She had never met a blind person before and had not guessed one could appear so normal. Answering Mariel’s questions, she stumbled on her words in her attempt to act correctly. A mumbled “Good night” accompanied her out the door.

  Mariel placed her hat and bag on a chair. The maid had been disconcerted by her questions about the location of the furniture and doorways, but she needed the information. Cautiously she crossed the room to where the bed should be. She found it When her legs brushed the footboard. Running her hands along it, she found the twisted carving of the canopy uprights. This room was lovely. She would enjoy staying here for their visit to London. The thought of renting a room in an unknown hotel had worried her.

  “Will this do?”

  She spun to face the door. An involuntary smile brightened her eyes. “This is wonderful, Ian. Why are you hiding this part of your life?”

  “I never meant to conceal it from you. It has been easier to gain the trust of the people in Foxbridge if they think I share more of their background than of yours. I have not lied.”

  “I cannot imagine you lying. You are too honest sometimes.” She laughed as she walked toward him.

  Ian lowered his eyes, unable to meet her smile. If only she could guess how he lied over and over. Every word he said to her was encased in a falsehood. His faked optimism about this visit to Dr. Gillette, as well as his acceptance of her resistance to his love. He wanted to be done with these lies. He longed to pull her into his arms and love her. He yearned to rest his head against her skin as he released the anger and sorrow within him.

  “Rosie is anxious to investigate the back garden,” she continued as she took his hands in hers. “I am glad we brought her with us. It is so much fun to share her excitement.”

  He laughed, but the sound was false even to his ears. “I don’t know who was more thrilled with the train. Rosie or Miss Phipps.”

  “Ian?”

  Patting her hand, he did not have to ask what was bothering her. It was him. “It has been a long trip, my dear.”

  Mariel put up her fingers to search his face for the truth. She felt the tightness of his lips vanish beneath her soft touch. When he caught her hand and pressed it against his lips, she felt the too familiar surge of longing. His other arm circled her waist. The hard line of his cane pressed her closer. Her mouth welcomed his.

  Hungrily, he kissed her again and again. His lips moved along her face while she laughed with the happiness coursing through her. That sound vanished as he captured her mouth once more. His tongue probed within it to tease awake the passions she had tried to dampen. Her fingers slipped beneath his coat to hold him tight to her. The solid strength of his chest against her softer curves weakened her bones and her resolve not to be his again.

  When he raised his mouth from the bewitchment he had been creating along her neck, he whispered in her ear. The warmth of his breath sent a flame along her.

  “Sleep well, my love.”

  She put out her hands to keep him from stepping away. “Ian, must you go?”

  “I must, unless you want me here with you all night.” A single finger etched delight along her as it moved from her collar down along the front of her jacket. “You hesitate in answering me.”

  “I love you,” she said helplessly.

  “And I love you. That is why I am telling you good night now.” He kissed her lightly. “I want you to want me without that hesitation.”

  She clasped her shaking fingers in front of her as he went from the room. The sound of his cane striking the wood floors did not go far before she heard a door open and close. Slowly, she shut her own door.

  Undressing for bed, she fought her yearning to run to him and ask to be held in his arms as she once had been. Only because she feared that becoming his lover would precipitate another proposal did she delay. She loved him too much to risk that again.

  In the loneliness of her bed, she could not weep out her sorrow. It was too potent for such relief. She felt the darkness weigh on her until she ceded herself to it. In the depths of her sleep, she could not escape her longing to believe in the impossible hope of regaining everything she had had for three short, perfect days.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Phipps pressed the ostrich-feather fan into Mariel’s hand. Stepping back, she regarded the nervous woman objectively. “There, my lady. You look perfect.”

  “Phipps, I can’t do this.” Mariel dropped the fan onto a chair.

  “And why not?” She busied herself picking up the discarded clothes. “You do not need your eyes to attend this ball. Your ears can hear the music. Your feet can move to the steps of the dance. Go and enjoy yourself.”

  “I am afraid of shaming Ian.” Her fear was so potent, she could hide it no longer.

  Phipps put her hands on the shivering arms of the young woman and turned her to face her. “Lady Mariel, you could ride as naked as Lady Godiva through the streets of Coventry and not shame him. Don’t you understand? He loves you.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “Tell me?” She laughed with easy amusement. “Dear child, did you think either of you could hide the truth from the ones who love you? Nothing stays hidden long in Foxbridge. Still, no one ever spoke of seeing your automobile and buggy parked behind the parsonage for the nights Mrs. Reed was away with her ailing sister.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “You simply—”

  “You are a grown woman, Lady Mariel.” She pressed the the feathers back into her lady’s hand. “What you choose to do is a matter between you and your conscience. At first, I feared you would be haunted by the gossips. When I heard nothing other than an acceptance of the fact that you and Reverend Beckwith-Carter loved one another, I knew the people of Foxbridge cared enough about both of you to leave you alone.”

  Mariel’s fingers tightened around the fan. Never, in the warmth of newly discovered love, had she guessed what others were thinking. Only the bigots like Mrs. Rivers and Mr. Turner had made their opinions known. Those opinions she had discounted as worthless at the time. She had wondered about the lack of interest among their friends, but gave it little thought. Loving Ian in those stolen moments was all she wanted in her heart and in her mind.

  That happiness had disappeared. Ian tried to pretend everything would be fine if the doctor gave her bad news, but she could not share his optimism. Although she had regained much of her former independence, nothing would be exactly as it had been.

  Telling Phipps to have a pleasant evening, she went out of her room along the narrow corridor. Her full skirt belling out from the narrow waist of the gown brushed the small tables set beneath the gaslights. She placed her hand on the banister and walked slowly down the stairs along its curve. The musky scent of Ian’s cologne reached out to embrace her.

  She smiled as she held out her
hand to him. If she gave no sign of her distress, she might be able to convince herself of her ability to deal with this evening. His eyes moved along her in a heated appraisal she did not have to see.

  Ian smiled. Every man at the ball tonight would envy him this vision on his arm. One look at the dress she wore told him her uncle must have brought this gift from 7 Rue de la Paix in Paris. Lord Foxbridge must have known someone to give him cachet to Paris’s most selective designer. Only the House of Worth could have created such a luxurious gown.

  The ashes-of-roses crepe de chine was embroidered with sequins along the shirred nun’s-veiling panel in the front of the open skirt. As she moved, the gaslights glittered off the iridescent flowers cascading in a soft shower of petals from her shoulders to the hem. It whispered softly as she walked.

  When Mariel felt his warm lips through the fine mesh of her gloves, she closed her eyes in unspoken delight. She followed her fingers as he drew her into his arms. His mouth caressed hers lightly as they both fought the desire she refused to acknowledge. With his hands at her waist, her arms rose along the silk of his tuxedo coat to his broad shoulders.

  Softly, she said, “This is very different from what you wear in Foxbridge.”

  He laughed as her fingers roamed along his high stock collar and found the onyx studs closing his shirt above his white satin waistcoat. “I am very different in Foxbridge. There I am Reverend Beckwith-Carter. Tonight I am only Ian escorting the most beautiful woman in the world to my mother’s soiree.”

  “Ian—”

  “Don’t say it, my love. I know how anxious you feel. Simply smile, and every man there will be eager to do your bidding.”

  “Stay close to me.”

  He laughed. “I don’t think you could convince me to do otherwise. It is already fashionably late. Shall we leave?”

  During the long carriage ride to the house in the fashionable suburb of Kensington, Mariel was silent. Any attempt he made to speak to her was met with monosyllables or a brief nod. Feeling her distress, he put his arm around her shoulders and drew her trembling form closer to him.

  Too soon for her, the carriage stopped. She clutched tighter to Ian’s arm as they slowly climbed the stairs to the door of his family’s house. She smelled the many gaslights burning to light their way. The confused mumble of mingled voices swept out to encompass them.

  “This is the last step.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Honey, relax,” he urged as he greeted the liveried doorman. “This is my mother’s house. Some of my family will be here tonight. They will not be able to resist you, if you give them a chance to know you.”

  She dampened her dry lips as she walked by his side. The smooth floor under her feet was cool through her thin slippers. Marble. She smiled involuntarily as she discovered, as if for the first time, how much she could discern without her eyes. The melodic strains of a waltz came from the left. She gripped convulsively onto Ian’s arm as he turned her in that direction.

  He moved away from her slightly as he said, “Mother, I would like you to meet Lady Mariel Wythe. Mariel, my mother Cynthia Beckwith-Carter.”

  “So formal?” came a cheerful laugh. “How lovely to meet you, my dear. I am so glad you were able to join us this evening. I trust you had a pleasant journey to London.”

  The scent of expensive perfume surrounded Mariel. That and the swish of a heavy silk gown brought a picture instantly into her mind. Ian’s bright eyes in a feminine face, somewhat older, but no less charming. The image made her feel instantly at ease.

  “It was a lovely trip,” she answered with a smile. “My daughter has not stopped talking of all our adventures since we arrived at Paddington. I thank you for inviting me on such short notice to your party.”

  “Nonsense, my dear. This is Ian’s home, although he insists on staying in his own house on his few visits to London. My son’s friends have always been welcome here. You must come back to have luncheon with me when we can have a chance to chat without all these others about.” She chuckled again as she added, “And without Ian about to warn his mother to watch herself and not say the wrong thing. Does he do that to you also?”

  “All the time.” Mariel giggled as Ian took her hand. “See, he has that exasperated expression on his face because I have said the wrong thing already.”

  Mrs. Beckwith-Carter started and glanced at her son in shock, seeing that the young woman was correct. Disconcerted, she did not want to blurt out the thought in her head. She had been sure her son had written he was escorting Lady Mariel to London for her to see an ophthalmologist.

  “She knows me too well,” Ian said quickly to ease his mother’s astonishment.

  “Why don’t you take Lady Mariel into the ballroom and get her something cool to drink? Here comes your father’s cousin Godwin. He is a terrible boor, so hurry. You know you want to evade him.”

  Ian bent forward and kissed her cheek. “Mother, you will never change.” With a gentle tug on Mariel’s fingers, he added, “A glass of champagne?”

  “That sounds lovely. Thank you again, Mrs. Beckwith-Carter.”

  “Tell him to bring you back soon, my dear. Soon, Ian!”

  Her joyous laugh followed them as they descended the pair of steps into a lower level of the entry foyer. The ballroom spread out before them. Ian regarded it with pride. This was a lovely house. Except for the two years when he hated everything, he had loved his visits here from their country home.

  Vivid shades of golden velvet and silk glistened in the light from the trio of Waterford crystal chandeliers. The flames of gas soared toward the ceiling and its mural of a Grecian feast, complete with goat-footed pans and floating deities. To one side, nearly hidden by the crowd of guests, the orchestra played on a raised platform decorated with bunting. Opposite, awaited the tables where the buffet would be served at midnight.

  He adjusted the bow tie at the collar of his tuxedo. As he was about to lead Mariel toward the punch bowl, he heard his name called. “Ian!” came the enthusiastic female voice, which he recognized all too easily.

  Mariel was nearly rocked off her feet as someone pushed her rudely aside and away from Ian. She put out her hand to steady herself and touched slippery satin. “Oh, excuse me!” she gasped, feeling the heat of a blush climbing her cheeks.

  “No problem, my dear young lady,” came a laughing voice. Her fingers were raised to lips topped by a full mustache. The bristles stroked her hand through her glove as he kissed it. “Colonel Arnold Hoppe, Retired, at your service. You are—?”

  “Mariel Wythe,” she said quietly. She felt adrift without knowing exactly where Ian was. She smelled his cologne nearby, but did not know if it was only a residual scent. In the blur of voices around her, she could not discern his easily. If she called to him, she could make a fool of herself. Taking a deep breath, she remembered her resolution to act normally tonight. In a steadier voice, she added, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Colonel.”

  She could hear his smile in his words. His voice was exactly as she imagined a retired colonel’s to be. Rich with aristocracy, snobbish with the presumption that the British were the finest, most civilized people on the globe. “Wythe did you say? You must be Wilford’s niece. Where is that chap now? Last time I spoke to him was when I was garrisoned in Cape Town.”

  “Uncle Wilford is on his way home,” she said, pleased to meet someone who did not react with loathing to the Wythe name. “He was in America last. Some place called Chicago. He is taking a steamship from New York to Liverpool. We expect him home within the month. He wrote that he can’t wait to tell me about the United States. As always, he was fascinated by the idiosyncracies he found.”

  “That’s Wilford. He would be fascinated if he met his end being eaten by cannibals. I always recreate him in my mind as I saw him in the interior, with his notebook in hand, his pith helmet awry, chasing some poor native to gain information for that book he has yet to write.” He chuckled. “Is that why he is
coming home? To write that long awaited tome of ‘fascinating’ information?”

  Hedging, she answered, “I believe that is one of the reasons.” The man had not mentioned anything about her accident, so she did not want to say the real reason her uncle was ceasing his lifelong travels around the world.

  Just the previous week they had received a wire from her uncle. He had received, from the British consulate, the letter Miss Phipps had dashed off to him as soon as they had been sure Mariel would live. Only the difficulty of making reservations, and long layovers, kept him from getting home as quickly as he wanted, to be with his beloved niece.

  Colonel Hoppe held out his arm and asked, “May I, my lady?”

  “Excuse me?” She could not understand what he meant. Desperately she turned to seek Ian. He must have moved away, for she could discern no sign to let her know of his presence.

  “Allow me to escort you into the ballroom.”

  “I promised to dance first with Reverend Beckwith-Carter.”

  He picked up her hand and placed it securely on his arm. The wool of his coat was prickly beneath her fingers. “He is busy talking to Portia Muir. I am sure they have much to discuss since the last time they saw each other, seeing as how they once were rumored to be ready to announce their betrothal. By the time they finish chatting, I will have returned you here. A single dance with an old friend of the family, Lady Mariel?”

  Before she could answer, he had swept her into the crowded room. She squeezed into herself, afraid of bumping into something or someone. Her full skirts brushed others, but the colonel steered her through the press of people with the elan of one leading an expedition through the jungle. She recognized the dance floor by the pliant texture of wood beneath her feet. The music swelled over her.