Mary and the Marquis

by Janice Preston

  ‘Is it not your custom to take brandy or port after a meal?’ she asked, to distract herself from her desire.

  ‘Not my custom, no,’ Lucas replied. ‘I do have the occasional glass, but that is all.’

  ‘I remember stories, in the past...’

  He grinned. ‘Listening to gossip again, Mrs Vale?’ Then he became serious. ‘I hope I have matured somewhat since my salad days. I was a touch on the wild side in my youth, but that was a long time ago.’

  His words did not relieve Mary. Quite the opposite, in fact, for the better she knew him and the more she learned, the faster the protective barriers she had erected around her heart were crumbling.

  They chatted of this and that, Mary determinedly keeping the conversation mundane and, by the time Ellen came in with tea, Mary’s pulse rate had calmed.

  ‘Would you like me to make the tea?’ she asked.

  ‘Thank you, yes. My mother always...’ His lips tightened, his words fading away.

  Mary crossed to the table and busied herself, working by rote. She reviewed the events in his past about which she remained in ignorance: the reason for his ban on children; why he had forced his mother to move out of the Hall and, most important of all, who was Julia?

  She handed him a cup of tea even as her mind churned.

  Is he still in love with her?

  ‘Tell me about Julia.’

  As soon as the words escaped her lips she regretted them. She took her own tea and sat opposite him, silently berating her tactlessness. Could she not have phrased the question with more sensitivity? She could have asked him about the less contentious issues first and then eased into the matter of Julia. His eyes had shuttered, his lips firmed.

  She could not take the words back. She might as well brazen it out.

  ‘I apologise if the subject is painful, Lucas, but I am interested to know about your past.’

  ‘Did we not have this conversation already today?’ His indifferent tone matched his expression.

  ‘We did, but we were interrupted before you had the opportunity of answering my question.’

  Lucas set his cup and saucer on to the table by his side. ‘You know precisely as much now as if there had been no interruption.’

  If he had yawned, he could not have looked more uninterested.

  ‘It was just before you met the children.’

  ‘“Met”? Is that a euphemism for “found out about”?’

  Mary pressed on. ‘Will you tell me why you did not want children at the Hall?’

  ‘Did not? Did I say I’d changed my mind?’

  Did he know how infuriating he was? One peek at his poorly disguised amusement confirmed he was only too aware of the effect of his intransigence. She clenched her teeth.

  ‘May I ask, then, what you were about to say about your mother?’

  ‘My mother?’

  ‘Yes. When I asked if I should make the tea, you said “My mother always” before clamming up. I should like to know what you were going to say.’ Mary eyed the gathering storm in his eyes, although his expression remained one of mild amusement. ‘Did she always make the tea here, before she moved to the Dower House?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Progress of a sort, she supposed. ‘Why did you want her to move out?’

  Lucas stood up and paced to the window, gazing out into the darkness. ‘I may as well tell you, I suppose, as you already know something of the estate finances,’ he muttered.

  What he really means is he will tell me about his mother in the hope of deflecting my attention from other, more sensitive, subjects. Still, some information is better than none. And it was a useful distraction from the instinct to take him in her arms and soothe away the pain glimmering beneath the surface of his indifference.

  ‘When my father died I discovered the estate was deep in debt. My mother knew my father had borrowed, but not how much or, indeed, the consequences if I failed to pay back his debts.’

  ‘But why did that necessitate her moving away?’

  ‘I was protecting her.’

  ‘She is a grown woman. Might she not have been able to help?’

  ‘She has had enough trouble in her life. I did not wish to add to it.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘My father. He was not an easy man to live with.’

  ‘Will you tell me about him?’

  ‘Mary!’ With two strides, Lucas was in front of her. His chest swelled as he controlled his emotions with a visible effort. ‘If this is the effect of drinking one glass of wine, I should hate to see you drunk,’ he said, with a smile that did not touch his eyes.

  Mary stiffened. ‘You will never see me drunk,’ she said. ‘It is of all things the one I abhor the most.’

  ‘How so?’

  The conversation was finished, as far as Mary was concerned. Lucas did not trust her enough to confide in her. Indeed, he was growing ever more irritable at her questions. Why, then, should she trust him in return?

  ‘Please excuse me,’ she said, standing, ‘but I am very tired. I think I shall retire now.’

  ‘Mary?’

  ‘Thank you for the lovely meal. Goodnight, Lucas.’

  * * *

  A pox on all women!

  Three days after his supper with Mary, Lucas hobbled along the path towards the stable yard, a furious diatribe scorching his brain. Mary had become the elusive lady, never where he expected to find her and always—always!—either surrounded by members of his staff or off somewhere ‘with the bairns’. How was he supposed to have a normal conversation with her when she was never to be found? Not once had he managed to catch her on her own. He should have saved his breath and let her leave. She might as well not be at the Hall, for all he saw of her.

  The slowness of his progress further irritated him. His thigh and hip groaned with every step he took, despite the assistance of a stout blackthorn, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. He had started out with the intention of visiting the stable yard and he meant to do it. Finally, he reached the sandstone pillars that flanked the entrance. He rounded the nearest one and stopped to catch his breath, leaning against its rough surface to ease his leg. He surveyed the yard, enjoying the familiar scents of horse and leather and the sound of horses munching hay.

  His initial pleasure was dampened by the number of closed stable doors around the square. In his youth, the yard had been full of hunters and carriage horses as well as the draught horses that worked the land, but now he kept the barest minimum necessary for the estate to function. His gaze alighted on Sultan’s stable—situated to the immediate left of the entrance—and froze.

  Perched precariously on an upturned bucket, his back to Lucas, was a small figure with a tousled mop of hair the exact same shade as Mary’s, brushing Sultan’s mane. The great grey’s head drooped over the stable door, his eyes closed, one ear flicking intermittently in response to the boy’s low crooning monologue. Neither Shorey nor Hooper was anywhere to be seen. Anger that the lad—how old was he? Four? Five?—should be there, alone, in such a potentially dangerous situation warred in Lucas’s breast with the craven desire to retreat before he was spotted. He didn’t want to deal with the boy. Why, he didn’t even know his name.

  And you wonder why Mary has been avoiding you?

  He pushed away from the pillar, straightening. He was still undecided whether to advance or retreat when the decision was snatched from his hands. His abrupt movement startled Sultan, who threw his head into the air, knocking the boy, who seized a double handful of mane as his flailing feet kicked the bucket from underneath him. For an instant he swung in mid-air, then the horse started to back, eyes rolling at the weight hanging from his neck. Lucas sprang forward and grabbed the child before he could fall.

  They tumbled to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs, Lucas twisting at the final second to avoid crushing the lad. He lay on his back, heart pounding against his ribcage, as he clutched the hot, solid little body to his chest. For an instant the boy was s
till and then he began to squirm. Lucas, instinctively, tightened his grip.

  A muffled sniff sounded, followed by disjointed pleas. ‘I’m sorry...didn’t mean...please...didn’t hurt him...’

  ‘Lie still!’

  Instantly, the lad stopped wriggling. The only sound was his ragged breathing punctuated by the occasional hiccupping sob.

  ‘Please...’ The whispered plea was barely audible, but the boy’s dread was clear.

  Lucas recalled the lad’s fear the first time they had met on the landing. The Bad Man. No wonder he was terrified.

  ‘If I let go, do you promise not to run away?’

  A tremor shook the small body. ‘I promise.’

  Lucas loosened his grip at the same time as he worked his way to a sitting position. He put the boy from him, standing him on his feet, and looked him in the eye. ‘I have your word as a gentleman, mind,’ he said as he removed his hands from the boy’s waist.

  The boy nodded, his face pale and streaked with tears. But he had stopped crying. That must be a good sign. He had his mother’s eyes and they regarded Lucas fearfully from beneath his shock of hair. Lucas reached out to brush the hair back and the boy flinched, but stood his ground.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Lucas said. ‘I won’t hurt you. Why are you here on your own?’

  The lad hung his head and scuffed at the ground with his boot. ‘I thought Shorey would be here. He said I could help him.’ His voice quavered. ‘I didn’t want to stay with Em’ly. She’s a baby.’

  Lucas bit back a smile. He remembered his own outrage when told he must stay in the nursery every day with Hugo, his younger brother.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Toby. My...sir...’ Toby eyed Lucas doubtfully.

  Lucas smiled. ‘Sir will do,’ he said. The lad must call him something. ‘Does your mother know where you are?’

  Toby hung his head, then peeped up at Lucas. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Which meant she had no idea and would no doubt be frantic with worry.

  ‘Why did you not go back to the house when you saw Shorey wasn’t here?’

  ‘I wanted to brush Sultan. Shorey said I could.’

  Lucas bent a stern look on Toby. ‘You must know, Master Vale, that Shorey meant you to help only if he was around to keep you safe.’

  Toby shrugged, pouting. Then he looked at Lucas, his eyes brightening. ‘You called me Master Vale. I like that. Lindy calls me Master Toby sometimes, but that sounds like a baby.’

  ‘It does indeed.’ Lucas bent his good leg beneath him and, by grabbing hold of the stable door, he pulled himself to his feet. ‘Who is Lindy?’

  A gurgle escaped Toby. ‘You must know. She’s yours. She makes bread and cakes and tasty things.’

  Ah. ‘How silly of me. Of course, you mean Mrs Lindley.’ Lucas leaned forward to brush at his breeches. Toby moved behind him and Lucas felt his small hands batting at the back of his legs.

  ‘There. Now Mama won’t know you have been sitting on the ground,’ Toby said as he came back into view and gazed up at Lucas. ‘You must not sit on the ground. You will catch a chill.’

  ‘She is quite right. Mothers usually are. Come...’ Lucas held out his hand to Toby. ‘Let us go and find your mama and put her mind to rest. I am sure she is worried about you.’ He glanced over the stable door at Sultan, who was munching a mouthful of hay and seemed none the worse for being spooked. ‘You can come with me to the stables another time and we shall groom Sultan together if you like.’

  ‘I would like that ’cause if I work then you won’t mind if I eat, will you?’

  Startled, Lucas glanced down as Toby placed his tiny hand trustingly in his large one. ‘Why should I mind if you eat, Toby?’

  They walked out of the yard, making slow progress.

  ‘Mama said we can’t stay because I eat too much,’ Toby said. ‘I try not to eat much, but I don’t like being hungry like before. I want to stay here. It’s nice.’

  ‘Were you often hungry, Toby?’

  Toby’s face screwed up in concentration. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘We walked a long way. I don’t like dry bread.’

  ‘What about your cottage, where you lived before? Did you like it there?’

  ‘I didn’t like it when that man made Mama cry.’

  Lucas stiffened, his insides clenching at the thought of anyone making Mary cry, even as he recognised his hypocrisy. After all, who had been the cause of all of Mary’s tears since she had come to the Hall? He thrust that thought away.

  ‘Which man was that, Toby?’

  ‘Simon. He was Papa’s friend, but he didn’t like children.’

  ‘Why did he make your mama cry?’ Part of Lucas was appalled he would stoop so low as to question a child in such a way. The other part urged him on, too curious to let his gentlemanly scruples get in its way.

  ‘She was sad because Simon’s papa died and then Simon said, “You must do what I want,” and Mama said, “Yes.” But she told me she pretended and she really meant no.’ Toby halted and pulled at Lucas’s hand. Lucas looked down at Toby’s upturned face. ‘Mama always says I must not lie, but she lied, didn’t she? She said it was to protect us and then we ran away in the dark. Do you think God will tell her off for lying?’

  ‘I am sure He will understand, Toby. Your mama is a good person. God will see that.’

  Toby smiled up at Lucas. ‘She is a lovely person.’

  ‘She is indeed, Toby, she is indeed.’

  Toby ran ahead of Lucas, then stopped to examine the flowerbed that flanked the path.

  ‘What is it?’ Lucas bent down to see what had caught Toby’s attention. A dead mouse, blood staining its fur, lay at the base of a clump of iris leaves.

  ‘It’s a dead mouse.’ Toby announced. ‘It’s got blood on it.’

  Lucas wondered if the boy might get upset, but it seemed he was more interested in how the mouse might have met its demise.

  ‘It was probably one of the stable cats,’ Lucas said.

  ‘But you don’t always die if you get blood, do you?’

  ‘Er...no, not always. But mice are very small and fragile. They are no match for a cat.’

  Toby stared up at Lucas with a serious expression. ‘You are not small,’ he said. ‘What’s fragile?’

  Where on earth is he going with this? Lucas wondered. ‘No, I am not small. Nor am I fragile—that means easily damaged.’

  ‘Like Em’ly.’ The satisfaction in the boy’s voice made Lucas chuckle. ‘That’s why I have to be strong and be nice to her, Mama said, and not fight her.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I found your blood.’

  ‘Yes, I know. You told me before.’

  ‘You were cross.’ Toby skipped a pace or two, then looked up at Lucas again. ‘You’re not cross now. Are you?’

  ‘No, Toby, I’m not cross. Where did you find my blood?’

  ‘On Sultan’s neck. Only I didn’t know he was called Sultan. I called him Cloudy in my head.’

  ‘Cloudy? That’s a good name for a horse.’

  ‘It’s my pretend horse, but you can call Sultan Cloudy if you like.’

  ‘Ah, but he’s used to me calling him Sultan. I don’t want to make him sad.’

  ‘Would he be sad?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Don’t you think his name suits him?’

  Toby frowned, then started towards the house again. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said, ‘but I didn’t think of it when I thought of Cloudy. You can call him Sultan, I don’t mind.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lucas, battling the urge to laugh. He had never endured such a surreal conversation but, to his surprise, he was enjoying it.

  ‘Have you got a mama, sir?’

  ‘Why, yes, but she is away from home at the moment.’

  Toby took Lucas’s hand and squeezed. ‘I bet you miss her.’

  ‘I do...’

  Lucas fell silent, his mind whirling, very much at ease in Toby’s company. He could never reme
mber having such a conversation with his own father. He had always been a stern, remote figure, likely to erupt into a fury at any time. Was this another pointer he was not the same? He shook his head. One short span of time in the company of a young child did not make a good father. But he had not felt angry with Toby at any time. Even when he had seen him with Sultan and feared for his safety, his anger had been directed at those who should have been caring for the boy.

  ‘Toby! Toby!’

  Mary, skirts hitched high, ran full tilt along the path towards them. Her face was flushed, her hair flying loose of the pins that normally held it in place. He stood still and waited, enjoying the glimpses of slim legs as she ran. She did not slow down, but kept up her speed until she reached them, then grabbed Toby by the shoulders, pulling his hand from Lucas’s grasp as she dropped to her knees before him.

  ‘Are you...all right...?’ she panted, her bosom heaving. She turned him this way and that, anxiously scanning every inch of him, before raising her gaze to Lucas. ‘What...why...? What happened? Have you...?’

  Lucas lifted a brow. ‘I have not touched him, if that is what you are afraid of.’

  ‘No, of course you did not. I did not mean...’ Mary’s words faded as her doubtful tone rang in his ears.

  He frowned as she avoided meeting his eyes. Did she actually believe he might hurt her son?

  Well, isn’t that exactly what you were scared of? his inner voice taunted.

  On the brink of returning to the house, leaving Mary and her son to it, Lucas felt a small hand creep into his and his heart skipped a beat. At least someone trusted him, he thought, conveniently forgetting it was his decree that had started the ‘no children’ rule.

  ‘Me and sir, we’re going to brush Sultan together next time. Sir said so,’ Toby announced. He smiled up at Lucas. ‘Didn’t you, sir?’

  ‘I did indeed, Toby. As long as your mama will give her permission.’

  Mary gaped at Lucas, baffled. Lucas held out his other hand and helped her to her feet.

  ‘I found him grooming Sultan, on his own,’ he murmured into her ear.

  ‘In the stable?’ she gasped.

  ‘No, thank goodness. He was standing on a bucket, brushing his neck. What were you thinking, letting him out of your sight? He—’