by Cardon, Sara
Reginald stepped close. “Has she heard the rumors?” Several guests had spread the gossip about Marjorie’s inferior birth.
“I am uncertain.” He trailed Marjorie with his gaze. She brushed past him, leaving a hint of lavender. Unease settled in his core, dense and heavy. She usually welcomed his company, but something had changed since their ride yesterday. He pressed his lips together as he ventured a guess as to what Mr. Fairchild had said. He wished to speak with her, but a game of charades was about to begin.
Miss Winters tried to corner Marjorie, but Marjorie sidestepped to speak with Miss Easton. Marjorie was exceptional at flitting away, when she chose.
“In any case, she has made a few friends who stick close. That is something,” Miles said.
“What aren’t you telling me?” Reginald gave his back to the room. “There is the other rumor about her being caught in the rain with a man. You are not that man, are you?”
Jealousy shot through Miles and he tensed. Then he remembered Marjorie had spoken with her father. They must have been caught in the rain. “Do not repeat rumors you know to be utter nonsense.” So far, no one seemed to know Marjorie’s father had visited her. That was a relief.
Miles had hardly spoken to Mr. Fairchild before he left in the morning drizzle. The conversation had been stilted and awkward. Miles was unaccustomed to censure or any position other than being in command. But he was plagued with doubts. Did Mr. Fairchild guess at his interest in his daughter? Did he disapprove? Miles could not bring up the subject without declaring himself and asking for Marjorie’s hand, which seemed a leap. He was still coming to terms with the possibilities and the complications. A declaration of his feelings would cause a scandal, and he needed to approach this carefully. Besides, Marjorie would not so much as look at him since her father’s visit.
“You are keeping something from me. Come now, I know you admire her. Surely you can win her regard. Should we make a wager?” Reginald chuckled.
“I can manage my own affairs,” Miles said.
“Your own affairs?” Reginald’s eyebrows rose and he smiled lopsidedly.
Miles ignored his brother’s amusement over his choice of words. “Why is Webb still here?” he asked to change the subject.
Reginald’s face fell briefly. “I can manage my own affairs as well,” he said, regaining his usual confidence and charm. He left Miles to stand alone.
Miss Greystock called everyone together for a game of charades. “We need two teams. Separate yourselves or I shall.”
He waited to see which side Marjorie would choose. When he drew near, she edged away. He knew it was immature, but disappointment sat heavy in his chest. He switched tracks, crossing the room to stand alongside Lord Courtenay. He could be patient and find out what caused her distrust later.
“The category is famous people. And Sir James has flipped a coin, which indicates his team will begin,” Miss Greystock said. Sir James guided her to his team, of which Miles was a part.
Miles stayed on the periphery as the ten people clustered close, discussing who to choose and how to act out each syllable of the name.
Miss Greystock clapped her hands together to get everyone’s attention. “We are ready.” Both sides took a seat in the large drawing room. She recounted the rules of the game: participants were free to speak or dramatize until the other team guessed the correct word.
“The first syllable of this famous person’s last name is as follows,” Sir James announced with a twinkle in his eye. Miss Greystock pretended to pull something.
“A rope!”
“Bell!”
“Servants!”
Sir James came behind Miss Greystock and wrapped his arms around her to help her tug on the fictional rope. Her mouth parted and her cheeks flushed.
Lord Easton mimed digging, wiping his brow as if hot, and asking for water. Lord Courtenay picked up a vase, removed the flowers, and hurled the water onto Lord Easton, who sputtered a moment before both men laughed, along with the entire room.
“Water!”
At Mrs. Jones encouraging nod, the opposing team kept guessing.
“Well!”
“Yes,” Mrs. Jones called.
“Oh, it is Wellington! Lord Arthur Wellesley.” Miss Easton bounced on her toes.
“Yes,” Mrs. Jones enthused.
The teams clapped. The pug Wellington stood up and barked at hearing his name, earning extra pats and hurrahs.
“We made ours too easy,” Lord Easton said with a groan.
“Tabitha has a brilliant mind,” Lord Courtenay replied, causing the smile on Lord Easton’s face to change to a scowl.
The other team conferred for the allotted time, and then everyone settled in. The excitement in the room was palpable.
Mr. Oscar Easton held up both his hands to call everyone’s attention. “Ours is sure to be a challenge.” He smiled with confidence. “Here is the second word, second syllable.”
Mr. Tauney Easton led the others in arranging pillows in a line on the floor.
Webb and Reginald mimed jumping into the pillows and moving their arms.
“Swimming! Water! A stream!”
Mr. Oscar Easton nodded at the guess and motioned his team to continue.
Reginald picked up Marjorie and she gasped, circling her arms around his neck. Miles’ laughter died on his lips. His insides clenched at how close his brother held her. Reginald stepped over the pillows, setting her down and bowing gallantly. Miles stood still as the room cheered. Marjorie covered her cheeks with her hands, a timid smile on her face. Reginald leaned down and pointed to his cheek, asking her for a kiss. The impertinent scoundrel. She kissed her fingertips and touched them to Reginald’s face. Reginald looked his direction with a smug grin that seemed to say he knew how to charm women. Miles tore his gaze away.
Mr. Teirny caused another spectacle when he carried Miss Anne across and mimed dropping her in the water. Miles grimaced as Teirny took the charade one step too far by seeming to pat her dry. Miss Anne swatted his hands, her usual merriment gone. Mr. Tauney Easton stepped between them and ushered her away.
“They are fording the river,” Lady Du’Breven guessed. And the group of performers bowed and applauded.
“Ford is correct,” Mr. Oscar Easton said. He rubbed his hands together. “Here is the first syllable of the same word.”
The performers regrouped. Miss Easton pretended to whisper in the ear of Mr. Bloomsbury, who then mopped his brow and leaned towards a cringing Miss Standish, who turned to the next person in line.
“Gossip! Secret! Tell a secret!”
Mr. Oscar Easton clapped. “Tell is correct. You now have the first syllable, tell, along with the second syllable, ford.” He ignored the guests putting the word together, saying aloud, Tell-ford. “As I said, this famous person is a challenge. Here is a clue to the first name.”
The charades for the first name were as varied as the guesses. With no clear direction, everyone began calling out every first name they could come up with, some bordering on the ridiculous.
Miles was surprised to see Marjorie’s amused face turn to study him. Her expression turned thoughtful, and his heartbeat quickened. An awareness passed between them, humming and gentle. For a moment, her swirling emotions were laid bare—sadness, regret, longing—before she looked down, shielding the warmth in her eyes. Did she regret the moment he took her in his arms by the fountain? Or perhaps a warning from her father made her doubt him? He would give anything to understand her thoughts. Heaven help him, but he wanted to discover what the two of them could be together.
Marjorie moved forward, her intent becoming clear. She was going to pantomime. His shoulders slumped in disappointment that her thoughts were on this game and not on him after all. Then she looked up and locked her eyes on his. His senses sharpened.
She whispered to Reginald and Lord Ian, who got on their knees and tugged . . . at an imaginary toy? Marjorie shook her finger at them, then patted Reginald on the he
ad. She glanced at Miles again, along with Reginald and Lord Ian, who each looked confused but hopeful.
Miles smiled as he put the clues from the charades together. She was dramatizing their shared experience in the village, one to which no one else was privy. Lord Lieutenant Halstead’s son, Thomas.
“Thomas. It is Thomas Telford,” he said.
Everyone clapped, along with Marjorie.
Lady Rachel whispered, “Who is Thomas Telford?”
Webb cocked an eyebrow and looked down on her. “He is the engineer who rebuilt the London Bridge.”
Miss Easton embraced Marjorie. “I saw that. I don’t know how you got Lord Beauchamp to guess correctly.”
Lord Courtenay wrapped an arm around Marjorie as well and adopted a Scottish brogue, “Great job, lass. No London Bridge gonnae be falling down now.” He let go of Marjorie and winked at Miss Easton.
Marjorie flushed in pleasure. She was beaming and beautiful, her unease falling away to reveal the woman of spirit inside. She met Miles’ gaze once more before quickly looking away. He shook his head, unable to hold back a bemused smile. She radiated a genuine joy, and her magnetic warmth drew him. If she expected him to leave her alone—without first telling him why—then she was mistaken.
21
Confrontation
Marjorie dragged a gloved finger over the weave on the blank canvas set for her, waiting for a surge of creativity, but her interest petered out. The windless day invited everyone to spend the afternoon outdoors. Beyond the easels, set for the best view of the lake, some men and a few women lingered near the water’s edge with fishing poles. The sight did not stir Marjorie. She found it listless rather than idyllic. She breathed in the scent of peat moss, her mind absorbed in the hum of conversation and the plunk of the lures breaking the surface of the lake.
“Marjorie, dearest?” Aunt Harriet pulled her from her thoughts. “I could use a bit of help getting this landscape level.” She pointed to the canvas with her vine charcoal, a smile tugging at her lips.
Marjorie smiled slowly. “At the very least, we can make sure the landscape does not slide off the canvas.”
After everything her aunt had taught her, it was gratifying to be the one giving instructions. “Now fill in with the shapes of trees, and you are ready to paint,” Marjorie said. When Aunt Harriet tried adding painstaking details to a tree, Marjorie covered her wide smile, glad her aunt did not see her amusement. “Loose shapes. Like this.” Marjorie pointed to the cloud outline.
Aunt Harriet huffed. “That formless? I suppose I can manage.”
“Here, let me get a shapeless spot off your face,” Marjorie said before wiping a smudge off Aunt Harriet’s nose.
“Where is your handkerchief?” Aunt Harriet took her hand and examined the dark splotch on her glove.
Drat, she had forgotten she still wore gloves. She wished she had at least chosen the tan ones over the white.
Wellington ran through the easels, kicking up bits of dirt. “I don’t know whether to be worried for my dress or my canvas,” Aunt Harriet mused. They shared a laugh, and Marjorie tugged her hand free.
“Good afternoon.”
Marjorie stood up straight, recognizing Lord Beauchamp’s low voice. Her heart seemed to stop and then beat too rapidly. She glanced at him and then away, unsure where to look or how to behave. He touched the brim of his hat as he greeted them both. She managed a curtsy, all while admiring his buckskin breeches and black boots.
He gestured towards the water with a wrapped parcel. “Fishing today, hm? Wellington ran circles around me and reeks of fish.”
Aunt Harriet laughed. “Wellington, I happen to know, got into some mischief with fish heads.”
“It appears the servants have yet to catch him.” He glanced at Marjorie, but she couldn’t meet his gaze.
Aunt Harriet pointed towards her canvas. “What do you think of my efforts so far?”
There was a pause as he examined the dripping canvas and Marjorie tried not to smile. How would he answer?
“It is coming along well, Mrs. Jones.” Very diplomatic.
Aunt Harriet’s mouth pulled into a side smile. “My niece is an excellent teacher.”
“And where is yours, Miss Fairchild?” His low voice invited her to lean in.
She lifted her gaze, startled by how blue his eyes were. Her mouth seemed filled with cotton. “I am not drawing or painting.”
The skin around his eyes tightened. “Why not? It’s a fine day. Surely you have the time and inclination.”
She shook her head and turned her attention to the green lump of paint Aunt Harriet plastered on her canvas. “I cannot draw with someone looking over my shoulder,” Marjorie whispered. “I prefer painting in private at home.” She swallowed the last word.
Aunt Harriet snuck a glance between the two of them.
“Would you take a short walk with me, Miss Fairchild? I have a few moments until my solicitor arrives. That is, if Mrs. Jones can spare you, and if you are amenable to the idea,” Lord Beauchamp said.
Aware of watchful eyes and listening ears, Marjorie removed her apron, touched her aunt’s shoulder and followed Lord Beauchamp. He gestured towards the edge of the lake.
When they had walked a short distance he asked, “Why would someone looking over your shoulder keep you from drawing? It’s something you love.” He focused on a point across the lake.
Her pulse drummed in her temple, making reasoning difficult. She glanced at her hands, noticed the blackened spot on her glove, and hid it. “Because someone could criticize.”
He shook his head and shifted the parcel under his arm. “It would reflect badly on them, not you. You have a natural capability.”
Marjorie smiled wistfully, unsure if he was speaking only of her artwork, but grateful he believed her competent. “There are few people I trust enough to share my work. Someone in my situation cannot depend upon respect.” She twisted her fingers together.
They passed a copse of evergreen trees near the water. “I see.” He nodded, then he stopped walking to face her. “I hope you may trust me enough to let me watch you draw.”
Heat rushed through her at his words and the sincerity in his direct gaze. She swallowed and shrugged a shoulder, knowing her aunt would call the gesture unladylike. “Perhaps.”
Lord Beauchamp smiled briefly. Then he furrowed his brows and lowered his voice. “Have I done something to upset you?”
She tensed. “Why do you ask?” Her voice came out high and breathy.
He sighed and looked past her as if looking for an escape in the wide-open space. “Because you have been avoiding me. You have hardly spoken or looked at me since our ride. Since your father visited.” His lips pressed together in a firm line. “Which leaves me to wonder how I upset you. How I can fix it.”
Lord Beauchamp’s forthright manner astonished her. She bit her lip, wondering how much to reveal. She did not want to share her fear, born from her father’s caution, her doubt about Lord Beauchamp’s intentions, or how she puzzled over his true character. Let alone concerns over the disparity in their situations.
She exhaled, focusing on his question. “Honestly?”
He nodded once, a smile on his lips. “Yes, of course.”
Marjorie searched his features, all perfect angles and planes, and saw nothing but sincerity. She decided to answer carefully. “You have done nothing to offend me. But you are correct in your assumption about my father’s visit.” She swallowed.
“I spoke briefly with him before he left, but neither he nor I discussed his apprehension. I imagine he made his views clear to you though.”
“I’m sure you can understand. My position is precarious, even with my aunt and uncle’s good name.” She placed a hand to her forehead, willing herself to say the next words. “I cannot be too careful with my reputation. I cannot lose sight of my place.”
Lord Beauchamp squinted and lines fanned his eyes. “When you say ‘your place’ you mean your social stand
ing.”
“Yes. My lack of any social standing makes it impossible for—” She stopped herself before saying us and scrambled to finish the thought. “Impossible for me to expect too much.” She winced, wondering if he understood her. She was so far out of her element at this house party.
Lord Beauchamp closed the distance between them, and she grew lightheaded at his nearness. “Do not sell yourself short, Miss Fairchild. I know you have a vivid ability to dream. Reality aside, what do you hope for?”
A part of her wanted to confide. She bit her bottom lip, wavering on opening her heart. He looked so earnest. “That is a tempting question.” And he was a tempting man.
“Perhaps you should give in to temptation.”
The water lapped against the rocks. She wanted to step towards him.
“Your desires, Miss Fairchild?”
Her desires? To give in to gravity and let herself fall. Allow herself to imagine a life with him, to imagine him only having eyes for her. She imagined a life with Lord Beauchamp would transform bleakness into brilliance. He seemed the kind of man who could both let her fly and keep her grounded. She sighed and took a painful step back. Despite his ability to make her feel like she was his equal, she had to keep her distance.
He seemed to understand her sealed lips. “For the remainder of this house party, could you set aside your social standing?” he asked, shifting the package under his arm.
Marjorie shook her head and laughed softly. It was like asking her to forget how to draw. Impossible. “I could forget who I am about as easily as you can ignore your standing as a future earl.”
He rubbed his chin. “True. What I mean to say is, I would like to put aside the images we cut in society, and treat each other as equals.”
Marjorie stared in wonder at this man. He appeared sincere. He would, in essence, put aside his title for her to be more at ease in his company. Could she really see past his title and her father’s dependence on him for his living? Would it put her father at risk? “My father . . .” She swallowed.
“Yes?”
She shook her head, unable to get past the lump in her throat.
