by Cardon, Sara
Reginald barked a short laugh.
Miles tugged his sleeves. He despised not being in control of a situation. The look of triumph on Miss Winters’ face turned his stomach.
“You need not perform,” he told Marjorie.
But Marjorie surprised him. Despite her shaky hands, she rose gracefully to her feet and walked to the front. She clasped her hands at her waist, though her frame still vibrated with nerves. His heartbeat pounded.
Miss Winters’ look was cold and calculating. Without a doubt, she wanted to embarrass Marjorie. Marjorie’s gaze skittered from one face to the next until she glanced at him. He willed her to be strong. She did not look away from him, and, before he had a plan, he strode to the front of the room.
What was he doing? He could fix a variety of problems, but he was out of his element here. His presence could easily make this worse.
He stopped in front of Marjorie, hiding her from scrutiny for a moment. She spoke first.
“I cannot sing,” she confided in a rush.
“I happen to know you can. ‘A Wild Rover’ comes to mind,” he said in jest, thinking of the Irish drinking song.
She glanced up, and the light in her eyes felt like a small triumph. “I had forgotten that,” she said wistfully.
“I have not. It was stuck in my head for days.”
Miss Winters took a seat at the piano.
Marjorie’s smile slipped away and she wrung her hands. “I cannot think of a single song or lyric. It is as if I never sang before in my life.”
He remembered a song she knew. “I will have Miss Winters play ‘The Last Rose of Summer.’ ”
Marjorie tilted her head, astonished. “That is perfect. But how did you know?”
He leaned down. “You hum it constantly.” He strode to Miss Winters to turn pages and persuaded her to play the well-known Irish melody.
Miles’ throat constricted as the accompaniment began. Marjorie had not warmed up her voice or prepared for this performance. Well, if nothing else, she could not best Miss Standish for the worst performance of the evening.
The notes on the pianoforte came alive with Miss Winters’ touch. He breathed a sigh of relief when Marjorie began and remembered the words.
On the second stanza, Marjorie’s confidence grew. He stared at the sheet of music and then at the delicate woman singing. Her voice amplified the song and transported him through past years. A simple tune about the last rose before summer’s end. How could the same song by turns haunt, cut sharp, and then be so tender it caused a physical ache?
Miles’ life was full of responsibilities and business, but a void opened when he heard the words of the song: alone, thou lone one, who would inhabit this bleak world alone? Like a dissonant chord needing completion, he discovered with a start that a part of him was lonely.
After the final notes drew to a close, Marjorie curtseyed low. The applause was swift.
He stood, watching Marjorie, pride warming his chest. He had worried about her, but Marjorie had carried herself with dignity and poise. She sang like an angel. Beside him, Miss Winters gathered her music with a scowl. When she stood, she rearranged her face into a look of pleasure. “Well done, Miss Fairchild. That was a good effort.”
Miles walked with Marjorie back to their seats. She sank into her chair as the next performance began.
After speaking with her aunt, Marjorie leaned towards him. “Thank you for your assistance.” Her face was becomingly pink.
His mouth went dry. He tugged his cravat, his internal temperature rising, leaving him restless. He curbed his unwelcome response to her and said evenly, “It was my pleasure. You have a lovely voice.”
Marjorie beamed. Her hands were still shaking, and he had a desire to hold them in his own. He folded his arms and discarded the wayward thought.
“I am glad to conquer my fear, though it was more the challenge of someone throwing down the gauntlet.” She narrowed her eyes. “There is something inside me that rises when someone believes me incapable. I suppose it is pride.”
He smiled. “I call it bravery. You should sing more often. Though not under duress.”
Marjorie laughed, radiant. As much as she had resisted sitting next to him at the beginning of the musicale, she now relaxed beside him.
Reginald stole a roguish glance at Marjorie, and she sighed. Miles clenched his hands into fists. Everything he did to keep them apart was not enough. Based on how Reginald kept gazing at her, Miles speculated his brother would find a way to spend time with Marjorie again soon.
But what worried Miles most were the glances from across the room as other men seemed to notice Marjorie for the first time. He ground his teeth together. The way the men looked at her reminded him of how one might appraise a horse. Heat shot through his gut, triggering a fierce compulsion to keep Marjorie safe.
9
Battledore
Today was full of promise. Marjorie knew it the moment she looked out the window and discovered baby starlings balanced on the edge of their nest in the tree below. One by one the birds fluttered into the air and took flight. Marjorie watched each take off.
When she joined the others in the breakfast room, her face was tired from smiling. Heads turned her direction, many with a friendly good morning in passing, but many stopped to take her measure.
“Ah, the ethereal Miss Fairchild, come to see us mere mortals," a gentleman, with teeth spaced wide, said by way of greeting. He was one of Reginald’s friends, Mr. Tierney. He styled his hair forward in the Brutus fashion and seemed to have an edge about him, a mercurial mood.
"Good morning." She wondered what he’d decided her worth was, based on last evening’s impromptu performance. She brushed it off; it did not matter. More than ever, she felt as if she belonged here. As she passed, Miss Winters sniffed and looked down her nose at her.
After filling a plate with strawberries, ham, and a steaming roll, Marjorie searched the table for an open seat. Her pulse jumped when she noticed Lord Beauchamp watching her. His brow creased as if puzzling something out.
Miss Anne Townshend motioned to Marjorie and nodded to the empty chair beside her. Marjorie refocused her thoughts. Just because Lord Beauchamp had stepped in to help her did not mean he would welcome her company.
“Your performance last evening was remarkable,” Marjorie said as she took the proffered seat.
Anne had a cheery countenance. “As was yours.” She leaned in as if they were old friends. “Does Miss Winters have something against you?”
Marjorie grimaced. “Perhaps.” She looked in Reginald’s direction.
Anne noticed. “I see,” she said with an airy laugh.
Marjorie sat up. “What do you mean?”
“Miss Winters is jealous,” Anne whispered with authority.
Marjorie frowned. “But why?”
“You cannot be serious. Surely you know.” When Marjorie stayed silent, Anne continued. “Mr. Beauchamp admires you.”
Marjorie clutched her hands together. Her heart soared with fledging hope.
“Both brothers, in fact,” Anne declared.
Her hands broke apart and her mood plummeted. “You are mistaken,” Marjorie said. She shook her head, disappointed she had allowed herself to listen to someone who did not know the situation.
Anne bit down her smile. “We shall see.”
An interesting conversation distracted Marjorie. She listened intently, struggling to put names to faces.
“Yes, games on the lawn would be so diverting,” Miss Tabitha Easton—the water fairy— agreed.
“A game? What kind of game?” Mr. Oscar Easton, her brother, seemed to wake up. He rolled his muscular shoulders.
Reginald added his opinion. “Battledore is easy enough. How about a picnic?”
Miss Greystock looked pensive. “A picnic can be arranged, if you like.” The deep timbre of her voice reminded Marjorie of the country doctor’s grave tone.
The usual sparkle was absent from Sir James’
eyes when he frowned and said, “I believe we should postpone for another day. Think of all the work involved.”
Reginald laughed, and Marjorie smiled at the pure joy in the sound. “Nonsense. There is nothing to it. And I have a desire for a distraction.” He met Marjorie’s gaze across the table. “I should like to see a particular rose in the garden. Roses should not be left to bloom unappreciated.”
Marjorie’s face heated at his reference to her song, “The Last Rose of Summer.” She set her water down, and it took all her willpower to swallow. Reginald sent her a wicked smile.
“Hmm.” Miss Anne nodded to herself.
The men present turned the tide in favor of a day outdoors. Miss Greystock left in a flurry, her skirt swirling like a paper boat caught in a whirlpool.
Marjorie left the room, her cheeks warm in anticipation of the day outdoors. And Reginald’s words.
By noon, everyone had gathered on the lawn and then spread out in different directions. Servants moved about attending to everyone and serving the picnic lunch. Reginald attempted to meet with Marjorie twice, but both times Aunt Harriet had deflected; once by turning Marjorie about, and the second by engaging them both in a conversation with Lady Du’Breven. He had shared an amused grin with Marjorie, but retreated.
Now Reginald sat beside Miss Easton on a picnic blanket in the shade. The two bent their heads close. Miss Easton said something, and Reginald threw back his head and laughed. Watching them, Marjorie felt as if someone had snuck up behind her and pushed her out of a tree.
She tried not to watch as she walked the grounds, wretched and alone. She searched for a friend but only caught sight of Lord Beauchamp. Their gazes connected, causing an odd fluttering in her stomach, but he continued listening to a silver-haired gentleman.
She switched directions by an oak tree and found someone in her path. She caught her breath. Before her stood the footman with Grecian features who had assisted her from her carriage on her arrival.
“Now then, would you care for a drink?” He offered her a glass of lemonade.
“Thank you.” She accepted the cool glass covered in condensation. The citrus was refreshing.
He stepped forward and spoke low. “I cannot help but notice you seem sad.”
Marjorie’s gaze flew to his, only a short distance from her own. “It is nothing.”
“I am a good listener. And I do not share any of the latest on-dit.”
She turned her chin, evaluating him anew. This footman had elegant manners and speech. When had he learned these social graces? Perhaps they shared similarities in their situations, though her situation was far improved compared to his, if he was in service.
She took a fortifying breath. “I know this is untoward, but I am Miss Marjorie Fairchild.”
He bowed as fine as any gentleman of her acquaintance. “Miss Fairchild, you may call me Damen. By the by, you are the first and only guest to whom I have divulged this information.”
Under the intensity of his gaze, she was tempted to press the cool glass against her heated cheeks. “Forgive me for saying so, but you seem to be of a higher social rank. Why do you work here?” She bit her lip at the impudent question.
Damen did not seem shocked. He nodded his head gravely. “I suppose I share an affinity for Lady Du’Breven.”
She squinted, confused. What did he mean by an affinity with Lady Du’Breven? He did not share an attraction. No. A kinship? Impossible. He must refer to a similarity in feelings. Marjorie nodded her head in comprehension. “She understands you,” she surmised.
“Yes, she does.” He was still leaning in as if this conversation was important to him.
How long had Damen been without companionship? Was he as lonely as she?
“Tell me about your aunt. You seem close,” he said.
Marjorie smiled. “Mrs. Jones is a kind soul. She has changed my life.”
“Indeed?” This seemed to pique Damen’s interest. "Tell me more. She must have plans to see you well married.”
“Oh. Well, yes, she does.” Marjorie ducked her head and took a sip of the tart lemonade. Her grandfather had been a gentleman, and both her mother and aunt had married for love. Only Aunt Harriet had improved her social station through her marriage. Now she wished to help Marjorie.
“I have observed you.” His words were low and liquid. “Any man who wins your hand should know you are the prize, not your fortune.”
Marjorie shook her head. “You mistake me. I am no heiress. We are not so very dissimilar, you and I. My father runs the stable yard for—” She closed her mouth before revealing any more. Anxiety washed over her at the harm he could do if he unknowingly exposed her. Her stomach lurched as if a bird was trapped inside, trying to claw up her throat.
“You do not look well. Let me take your drink.”
She released the glass. Her hands were cold.
Damen smiled sympathetically. “I see we do share similarities. Do not fear. I will keep your confidence.”
She nodded, acid rising in her throat at having made herself so vulnerable. It was as if he had some power to conjure up her secrets.
“Oh, my dear Miss Fairchild.”
Marjorie’s shoulders jumped, cringing at the metallic voice. Miss Winters approached. Alarm flooded Marjorie’s thoughts. Had Miss Winters heard any of their conversation?
“Miss Winters,” Marjorie said.
Damen quirked a brow, murmuring, “You are a saint, Miss Fairchild.” He looked over her shoulder. “Miss Winters is too high in the instep. And acutely vexing.”
Before Marjorie had a chance to ground herself, Miss Winters linked their arms and clamped down.
“We simply must get to know one another, Miss Fairchild. There is just something under the surface, something special under that bland expression, which I find so . . . captivating. Come, we must become the best of friends.”
Marjorie put a hand to her forehead. She would share no more secrets today. She was weak with nerves. She planted her feet. “I must decline. I am not feeling well.”
Miss Winters shook her head officiously. “You are too often unwell. You should exercise more.”
Marjorie tugged her arm free.
“Oh, Miles,” Miss Winters enthused. “My dear friend.”
Lord Beauchamp bowed and glanced between the two ladies. “I am come to fetch you for a game of battledore, Miss Winters. There is someone who boasts too much, and I should like to see you take him down a peg.”
Miss Winters’ smile grew. He pointed the direction and she marched off.
Marjorie breathed a sigh of relief to be free of the woman. She felt dizzy.
“May I see you to a seat in the shade?” Lord Beauchamp asked.
Her strength returned thanks to his steady presence. She smiled a little, wondering when he had become no longer intimidating. She knew he was trustworthy and exactly as he appeared. He had no hidden agenda where she was concerned.
“Yes, I would appreciate that,” she said.
He offered his arm, which she took. Lord Beauchamp pressed her arm close to his side to support her.
“I suggest we watch Miss Winters play this game of battledore. It will be highly amusing,” he said.
Marjorie raised her face to see him around her bonnet. “Would you be shocked if I cheered for her opponent?”
Lord Beauchamp smiled bemusedly.
They sat on sweet-smelling grass at the base of a tree, with a clear view of the game. Miss Winters whacked the shuttlecock, and Mr. Oscar Easton dove to return it.
“Forgive me, but I overheard some of your conversation,” Lord Beauchamp said.
“Oh?” she choked.
“Miss Winters mentioned exercise. What is your favorite?”
A relieved smile bloomed on her face. She picked a blade of grass and strummed it between her gloved fingers. “Horseback riding.”
“Ah, of course. Not skipping or tree climbing these days?”
Marjorie could not hold back a mischiev
ous reply. “Not if anyone is watching.”
Lord Beauchamp laughed. The sound was rich and full.
“And you?” she asked, curious what he would say.
“Fencing.”
“I understand fencing and dancing are similar,” she said.
He considered it. “The footwork is comparable. Still, I prefer to focus less on grace and more on beating my opponent.”
She smiled and shook her head at the study in contrasts he presented. Such a gentleman, and still so driven to best his competition.
The shuttlecock popped and sailed close to them. Mr. Easton raced to get it, sweat glistening his brow as he plucked it off the grass.
“Oh, Regi dear,” Miss Winters called.
Marjorie twisted, accidentally brushing shoulders with Lord Beauchamp.
“Come join the game,” Miss Winters continued, swinging her racket. “Mr. Easton believes he has me beat, but you and I make the best partners.”
Marjorie’s pulse sped at the sight of Reginald striding towards her. He glanced between Marjorie and his brother, a question knitting his brow.
“I will play, if the lovely Miss Fairchild will.” He reached Marjorie’s side and swept his hand out to take hers. Without a thought, she placed her hand in his. He lifted her to her feet, and grass sailed to the ground like down feathers. He held her hand a few seconds more than was proper, gazing into her eyes.
Only this time, she was aware of more than Reginald. They had an audience. Miss Winters tapped the battledore against the grass. Lord Beauchamp shifted and stood beside her. Mr. Easton voiced his eager intention to begin the new game.
“I do not think this is wise,” Lord Beauchamp said in a soft voice, his fists clenching.
Reginald glared at his brother. “Wise? I may agree with you, but it depends. To which part do you refer?”
Lord Beauchamp widened his stance.
Marjorie stepped out from between the two brothers.
Mr. Easton handed her a battledore. “You are on my team.” His eyes sparkled with energetic excitement. “And we play to win.”
Marjorie took hold of the wooden racket and nodded. The unease in her stomach returned in full force, wriggling and wretched. The muslin dress she wore would keep her cool, but her green spencer was stifling.
