by Holly Newman
Jocelyn laughed, entirely confused. "No, I'm afraid I don't."
"Och, that's right. You'll not have met her yet," Emmie said as she shut the armoire door and crossed the room to turn down the bed. " 'Tis a rocking horse he makes for her. Her one desire, she says. Poor wee one."
She shook her head, though her gentle smile remained. Finished with the bed, she removed a large kettle from a hob on the fireplace and poured hot water into a basin beside which she laid out a small scented soap and a towel. "There ya be, miss, hot water to wash with, a warm fire to take the chill from ya bones, and a bed turned down for a nice nap. Will there be anything else?"
Yes! Jocelyn wanted to shout, surprised at the questions and feelings consuming her. Tell me more of rocking horses, little ones, and the Marques! Tell me of vast expanses of land, of clear blue skies, and country living! Her soul thirsted.
But she only laughed, the questions going unasked. She was too well bred. Inwardly she sighed and chafed at the social restraints that demanded a curb on curiosity. The feeling joined the niggling mental discomforts she'd felt of late but did not understand. She brushed it aside. "No, Emmie, nothing else," she said on a wistful sigh. "I thank you for your care. You may be sure I shall mention your efficiency to the housekeeper."
"Thank ya, miss," Emmie said, beaming as she backed out of the room, leaving Jocelyn alone.
Jocelyn looked once more toward the building the Marques had entered; then she walked toward the basin to wash away the travel dust and compose her mind.
By two o'clock Miss Amelia Barnes, Jocelyn's abigail, had arrived with all her baggage. The redoubtable little woman set immediately to unpacking, pressing wrinkled clothes, informing Jocelyn how fortunate she was to be an extended guest at such an exalted establishment, dressing Jocelyn's luxuriant dark hair with combs and velvet ribbons, and otherwise pushing and prodding her young mistress into fashionable formal attire. Jocelyn's protests that they were dining en famille fell upon deaf ears. After all, this was the house of a Marques insisted Miss Barnes. Proper form must be maintained. Her young mistress would be best guided by her. Without argument.
By three o'clock Jocelyn found herself attired in yellow figured silk complete with pearls, a compromise as Miss Barnes would have preferred she wear yellow topaz with diamonds, gloves, fan, filmy shawl, and reticule, as if she were attending a London soiree.
Moments later a beaming Miss Barnes gently pushed Jocelyn out of the room, then closed the door.
Bemused, Jocelyn stared at the closed oak door. A puff of quiet laughter escaped her lips, and she shook her head ruefully. Even here, in the country, this attention to society was the same. Somehow she thought it would be different. Perhaps the expanse of land she'd seen from her tower window, the number and types of buildings upon the land, or simply the worn coat and stained leather breeches the Marques wore when he passed under her window made her think of differences. Perhaps, in truth, there weren't any, and therefore she should be touched by her maid's interest in her—in her—
What?
Her mind stumbled, and her bemused smile faded into a pondering frown. Interest in her social exposure? Success? Presence?
Why? To what purpose? Must this attention exist every moment of her life?
Slowly she turned away from the door and walked down the long corridor, her pace slow and measured. This time she scarcely noticed the richly oiled and immaculate wainscoting, the paintings hung between windows out of the sun's fading glare, the carpet runners woven with the Tarkington heraldic device. Vaguely she realized this was a long walk, but it felt right, for it gave her time to gather her wits, to leave behind "silly ponderings that had no meaning or purpose," as her mother often said in exasperation when Jocelyn questioned her on society's unwritten rules.
Somewhere nearby heavy footsteps rang staccato on marble. She heard them as one hears city background sounds and ignores them. Jocelyn's teeth worried her lower lip as her mind slid steadily toward considering what Miss Barnes's interests might be.
Jocelyn turned the corner toward the main staircase and scarcely saw the dust-encrusted boots before she collided with their owner, her downcast head bouncing off a broad chest that smelled of sawdust, sweat, and leather. She stumbled backward. Strong, work-roughened hands caught her bare arms where her shawl slipped down. She found herself staring at those hands.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Maybrey. Are you all right?"
That voice! Deep, solemn, and threaded with an ingrained sincerity. Jocelyn's gaze flew upward to meet soft gray eyes. "What? Oh, my lord! Oh, yes—yes—thank you very much. I was woolgathering, quite my fault. I do apologize, my lord."
"Nonsense, Miss Maybrey. It is for me to apologize." He smiled, and a spark of mischief lit his eyes. The expression transformed his face and took Jocelyn's breath away. His hands slid away from her bare arms, their roughness sending shivers down her spine. "I was running. Something I was told from childhood—as I'm certain you were—not to do in the house." He winked at her. "So I do not think you need apologize."
Jocelyn laughed. "You are too kind, sir." Her breathing calmed from that first flush of fear and surprise, though her voice remained high and breathy. There was something about the marques that fascinated, and her fascination embarrassed her. She stepped away, embarrassed both by her clumsiness and her breathless responses. Firmly she dropped her society mien into place.
"Kind? Scarcely, Miss Maybrey. Or as lately my mother would have it, not at all. But I beg you to excuse me. I have been too long at my work which I specifically promised my lady mother that I wouldn't do on your first day with us."
"Oh! Please do not rush on my account," she said, lightly dropping a hand on his arm. "I daresay I would not be ready if I weren't so well managed by my maid!"
"You, too, eh?" An odd expression—both mocking and humorous—twisted his lips.
"I beg your pardon?" she asked. She still had her hand on his arm. The realization flustered her. Her hand fell awkwardly away.
"Nothing. Is the room to your liking? Mary would have it that you'd be enchanted by one of our drafty towers."
"I am! It's wonderful. It has— It has—oh, I don't know. Character, I guess you could say."
He laughed at that, a rich, warming laugh. "Character. Yes, I do believe that is apt."
Emboldened, she added, "It really is quite a romantic room."
He crossed his arms over his chest. "Romantic?" he asked, one eyebrow quirking upward in wry, questioning humor.
In another man the expression would have been sardonic and would have reduced Jocelyn to silence, but she sensed that while his amusement was genuine, it was not mocking.
"A room for dreaming," she clarified, blushing at what her description had implied.
"Ah, and what would Miss Maybrey dream in a tower room? Of knights and shining armor?"
She laughed with him this time. "More like castles and kings," she said.
His humor faded, and a somber mask cast his features into quite another aspect. "There are no kings in my castle. Please excuse me, Miss Maybrey. I must be off," he said pleasantly enough, though with a hint of strained crispness in his voice.
Jocelyn's jaw slackened open. She snapped it up and stared at him, bemused by his sudden change.
"Before I came up the stairs, I believe I saw my sister in the music room. That's the first door on your left at the foot of the stairs."
Numb, she thanked the marques and edged around him to descend the stairs, her head high and her pace measured. Inwardly she quaked, for now she saw he could be as hard as he looked. What could have caused that terrible swift change? She felt as gauche as a country-bred young woman at her first London society function. Worse, she knew he watched her until she rounded the bend in the stairs and looked up at him, standing tall and now strangely formidable at the top of the stairs, his shoulders squared and his hands braced on lean hips as if he expected an argument. Their eyes caught and held, brown versus gray. Quickly Jocelyn tore
her gaze away. She lifted her skirts and ran the rest of the way down the stairs.
When she reached the music room door, she paused in her headlong flight and forestalled the footman, who stood ready to open the door. Her hand drifted to the vicinity of her heart—as if that would still its pounding thunder.
Why should the marques affect her in this giddy manner? Gracious, she was in an odd humor this day. Perhaps as much as a country girl felt gauche at her first city function, so she, a city girl, felt gauche in the country.
How absurd!
Thoughts of absurdity brought a smile to her lips and the color back to her cheeks. Probably the long carriage ride that morning left her more tired than she knew. She should have napped before her dresser arrived. Fatigue was the villain.
She bade the footman open the door.
"There you are, Jocelyn!" Lady Mary exclaimed, jumping up from her seat on the sofa to grab Jocelyn's hand and pull her down to sit beside her. "I was hoping for a comfortable coze before dinner. Mama, I know, will not be down until nearly dinner. She thinks four o'clock unseemly for dinner, but acquiesces for Tarkington's sake. She has been so agreeable to all he says. It quite has me wondering if fairies take away more than infants, and if changelings come in all ages!"
Jocelyn laughed. "More than likely she has favors to ask. Or merely curries favor for the sake of your coming wedding."
"Oh, there would be no need for that. Tarkington suggested the wedding be here. And the Christmas betrothal house party!"
"Really? I thought—I mean, all London thought . . ." She blinked and shook her head. Why was it that everything she learned of the marques surprised her? "Well, that will be meat for the groaning boards of the London gossip tables! All have been full of curiosity."
Lady Mary laughed. "I can well imagine. But in fairness, Mama thought of asking. She has been worried about Tarkington, you see, for he's withdrawn since Diana's death. He rarely laughs, and his smiles don't have that spark of life or that mischievous humor that lurked in his expression no matter the gravity of the discussion."
"Curious," Jocelyn murmured softly, remembering his expression when she met him at the top of the stairs. "But if he is still in mourning, why would he suggest this betrothal house party?"
"Tarkington is no longer in mourning, Jocelyn. That's not the problem. He has let Diana go. It was not easy, I'll agree; but he came to terms with Diana's death for Anne's sake. . . . At least, that is what he told me, and I believe him. Oh, Jocelyn, Anne is the dearest child who delights in each discovery!" Lady Mary laughed, though her eyes glistened with unshed memories. "I took her with me when I had my last fitting for my gown. The seamstress let her play among the baubles." She shook her head in rueful memory. "Soon she demanded the seamstress put all manner of odd beads and ribbons on my dress. I had a time convincing her otherwise! We had to promise to make her up a dress with a certain blue bead as part of the decoration and miles of trailing ribbon. That is to be her play ball gown, she told me."
"She sounds incorrigible."
"She is. But she has not become snide, like so many children do. She merely knows her own mind quite well. Tarkington is awed by her, I believe," she mockingly confided, her blue eyes dancing with humor.
"Awed? By his own daughter?"
"Well, he says prior to Diana's death his London activities kept him from home too much. Consequently he's lost track of the time from when she was an infant until now. She's grown without him noticing. When did she stop being an infant in arms? When did she learn to talk? To walk? he says. He's lost a part of his child's life that he can never recover. It is for Anne that he remains at Bayneville, you know. He doesn't want to miss a moment again."
"Gracious. That sounds rather morbid."
"Hmm, I suppose, but Anne is such a joy one wants to be near her. Still, though I do understand, I fear he is making a grave mistake. He was born and bred to take his place in society. I fear he is using Anne merely as an excuse to shun society."
"The maid who escorted me to my room, she mentioned something about a rocking horse . . . ?" Jocelyn ventured.
Lady Mary nodded. "He's building one for her."
"Building a rocking horse?"
"Yes. And doing much of the work himself."
"Himself?"
"Tarkington says doing the work himself will give the present more meaning. Making the rocking horse will represent his love for her." Lady Mary shook her head. "I asked him for whom, himself or Anne, but he didn't give me an answer."
"Probably didn't dare to! And I suppose that accounts for his work-roughened hands," Jocelyn said, then blushed at the admission she'd noticed his hands.
"True! And though I disagree, I do understand a bit of what he's saying. Christmas at Bayneville has always been a marvelous and very special time. For everyone."
"How do you mean?"
Lady Mary smiled. "The house is a beehive of activity. For two days before Christmas, the smells of baking sweet cakes and breads permeate the kitchens." Her voice increased its speed and enthusiasm. "Throughout the house everything is dusted and shined. The day before Christmas a Yule log is chosen, and pine, boxwood, holly, and ivy are gathered for garlands to lavishly decorate the house. Afterward, mistletoe is gathered by footmen and—with giggling help from the maids—is hung from kissing boughs throughout the castle. With the advent of night, candles are lit everywhere until the house is a blaze of light as brilliant and warm as the sun." She paused and shook her head as she considered the work involved. "They shall probably prepare the entire estate for the holiday better than they do for my wedding! Of course, I cannot say I blame them. Last year Christmas at Bayneville was bleak. Mama and I were here, and every time one or the other of us would do something that Diana normally did, everyone would burst into tears. Not even our traditional gift line brought laughter."
"Gift line?"
Lady Mary enthusiastically nodded, her color high. "On Christmas Eve the servants gather and we give them two presents each. The first is useful, like a new pair of boots or a shawl. The second is always fanciful or funny, and the household rings with merry laughter when those are passed out."
"What an enchanting tradition!"
Lady Mary sneezed as she nodded. "Excuse me. . . . It is, isn't it?" she said, her eyes watering. "My grandmother began the tradition. She was the tiniest of creatures, but she possessed the heart of a lion." Sneezing again, she dabbed at her nose with her handkerchief.
"Gracious, Lady Mary, don't say you're becoming sick! It only wants days until Lord Killingham arrives!"
"No, no. . . . It's nothing—a trifle."
"Perhaps, my dear, but one can't be too careful," Lady Maybrey said gravely.
Jocelyn and Lady Mary turned to see Lady Maybrey in the doorway followed by Lady Tarkington.
"What is this? Is my Mary ill?" Lady Tarkington's naturally high voice shrilled with concern.
Lady Maybrey's skirts softly rustled as she crossed the room. She stopped in front of Lady Mary and laid a cool wrist against her brow. "My dear, this is no trifle. Your brow is warm and damp from fever!"
"No . . . I can't be. . . . I tell you I'm all right!" Lady Mary pulled away, panicked denial in her voice and face.
"Oh, you are! You are ill!" shrilled Lady Tarkington, coming up by her daughter and repeating Lady Maybrey's actions.
"Oh, Mama," Lady Mary protested. She sniffled, then straightened to bestow her sunniest smile upon her mother. "It's nothing," she insisted again until her body betrayed her with an involuntary shiver.
"No!"
The harsh, single word startled the ladies. They turned to see the marques standing rigidly while myriad emotions chased across his face.
"Tarkington!" exclaimed his mother.
He spun away from them to shout at footmen in the hall: "Joseph! Fetch Dr. Linden. Matthew, tell Lady Mary's maid to turn down her bed!" He turned back to the room and crossed to the couch. Unceremoniously he picked up Lady Mary, holding her high again
st his chest.
"Tarkington! Put me down!" She squirmed in her brother's arms.
Looking at Tarkington's clenched jaw, Jocelyn knew he wasn't going to listen to his sister. Swiftly she gathered up Lady Mary's shawl from where it had fallen on the floor and ran ahead of the marques to open the music room door wider.
Lady Mary began weeping softly, muttering denial.
Jocelyn followed the marques and her friend as far as the stairs. From the base of the staircase she watched him carry her upstairs. Lady Tarkington followed behind, calling out further instructions to the servants as she went.
Lady Maybrey came up behind Jocelyn and laid her hand on her shoulder. Jocelyn turned her head to look at her mother and smile wryly. "I am beginning to feel this will be one very long day."
Thirty minutes passed. The butler had supplied Jocelyn and Lady Maybrey with sherry and had informed them in solemn tones that dinner would be set back an hour. They heard a flurry of activity when the doctor arrived; otherwise silence ensued, leaving them with only each other's company. For a time they exchanged prosaic remarks on the house and Lady Mary's illness. Still, time crawled, and Jocelyn paced the room like a caged animal. Finally she stopped at the beautiful gold-inlaid white harpsichord and let her fingers idly play over the keys, listening to the rich, unique, bell-like pinging sound. She sat down on the bench before the instrument, and her left hand joined her right in chords to accompany simple melodies, then to intricate patterns, and finally to songs. She sang softly, her eyes drifting shut as she allowed the music to fill her soul.
Lady Maybrey leaned back against a nest of pillows on the sofa. "I'd almost forgotten how well you play the harpsichord," she said when the last note of a song faded away. "You haven't played the instrument in months!"
Jocelyn shrugged slightly, a soft, almost sad smile on her lips. "When has there been time? We have been so busy the last months, I scarcely have time for myself. And, too, the time I have devoted to my music has been spent practicing the pianoforte for some soiree or another, learning songs others can sing as well." She sighed. "The harpsichord is not as favored an instrument as it was in the past. Reminiscent of hooped skirts and heavy brocades, I think. It is, you must admit, Mother, considered old-fashioned and therefore boring in the bon ton."
