by Mary Nichols
Chapter Two
Lord Danbury smiled, trying to put Maryanne at her ease. ‘I must apologise for keeping you waiting so long for an explanation, but it all depended on what the Dowager said when she saw you. I did not doubt she would acknowledge you, but...’
‘I am not who I seem, is that it?’ Maryanne said; that much she had been able to surmise. ‘But if you are going to scandalise my mother, then I do not wish to hear it.’
‘Scandalise your dear mother! Oh, no, Maryanne, that is the last thing I would do.’
‘But she was your...’ She could not bring herself to say the word mistress. ‘I overheard Miss Danbury say something about...’
‘You did hear that, I thought you might have. Is that why you ran away? The footman saw you fleeing as if all the demons in hell were after you.’
‘I...’
‘Do not say another word until you have heard me out. You want to know if you are my daughter, isn’t that so? Well, you may set your mind at rest. I would dearly love you for a daughter but, regrettably, you are no closer related than second cousin.’
‘Second cousin? I am your second cousin?’
‘Yes, my dear. Your mother was my cousin Helena. She was also the daughter of the fifth Duke of Wiltshire, who was my father’s brother. The present Duke is her brother.’
‘But I don’t understand.’
‘Your mother never told you?’
‘No, never. Why didn’t she?’
‘Because her parents, my aunt and uncle, disowned her. She wanted to marry your father and they disapproved. In fact, they forbade it, and, to avoid being forced into a marriage she abhorred, she ran away with your father.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘I was blamed at the time and I doubt if Her Grace will ever truly forgive me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I introduced John to your mother. That was in the days when we were both serving as naval lieutenants on a three-decker, before I inherited the Beckford estate. They fell in love.’
‘They stayed that way until death parted them,’ Maryanne said softly. ‘And I loved them both.’
‘I loved them too. After you were born, I tried more than once to persuade the old Duke to recognise you, but he refused. And even after he died, my aunt, your grandmother, still held out against it. Until a week ago.’ He turned to take her hand in his. ‘Do not be too hard on her, Maryanne. She is dying and wishing to make amends.’
Maryanne’s head was whirling and she could not think clearly. She was the granddaughter of a Duke; her mother had come from one of the foremost aristocratic families in England. It was too much to take in all at once.
‘What exactly do you intend to do?’ she said. ‘Nothing is really changed. I am still me, Maryanne Paynter, and I think no differently of my parents, except to love them even more, if that were possible. I pray they have been reunited in heaven.’
‘I am sure they have. But there must be some changes. You will have a home with me until you marry.’
‘Suppose I never do?’ Somewhere, deep inside her, was welling up a storm of rebellion. It was not ready to burst yet because she still felt too confused, but it was there, beneath the surface of her mind, waiting for something, or someone, to set it off.
He smiled. ‘You are too beautiful to remain single, my dear, and I hardly think you wish it. As soon as you are brought out into Society, you will have a flock of suitors, you can be sure.’
‘And no doubt I’ll give the gabble-grinders something to talk about as well. I do not care to be the subject of scandal.’
‘A nine-day wonder.’ He chuckled. ‘As far as the beaux are concerned, it will give your undoubted attractions an added piquancy.’ He was suddenly serious. ‘If your mother could rise above the tattlemongers, then I am sure you can.’
‘Have I a choice?’
He grinned. ‘You can try to live in obscurity if you wish, but I doubt if you will be allowed to, once the news is out. A beautiful new heiress on the scene is bound to cause a stir.’
‘Heiress?’
‘You have a little inheritance coming to you which should have been your mother’s...’
‘Then why did she have to live in poverty?’ Maryanne was close to anger on behalf of her beloved mother, who had scraped along barely making a living.
‘It was held back - quite legally, I may add. Her parents hoped to make her see reason.’
‘You mean abandon my father and return to the bosom of an unfeeling family,’ she said sharply. ‘I am glad she did not.’
‘The money is yours now, or it will be when you reach your twenty-first birthday in a few months’ time. Until then, you will make your home at Beckford Hall. Caroline will be pleased to have a companion.’
Maryanne doubted that; Caroline had displayed no friendly feelings towards her. ‘Does she know...?’
‘She does now. So does my son. You will be welcomed by them both.’ He smiled. ‘We are all to move to our London house for Caroline’s coming out this summer. There will be any number of receptions, balls, visits to the opera, clothes to be bought.
‘I shall not be expected to go, shall I?’
‘Of course, my dear. I intend that you shall be brought out along with Caroline, and I mean to ask my sister, Mrs Ryfield, to see that all goes smoothly. She has the "in" to every drawing-room in London, not to mention Almack’s. You will like her, I am sure.’
It was not Mrs Ryfield who occupied Maryanne’s thoughts, as they continued towards her new life, but what Caroline thought about sharing her coming out with a distant cousin whom she had never heard of until that day, and one she had no high opinion of either. It would all be acutely embarrassing. In fact, the idea struck her as so absurd that she began to laugh hysterically.
His lordship looked at her in alarm and took her hand to reassure her. ‘It has all been a great shock to you, I know.’
She stopped laughing suddenly. ‘I am glad I know about my mother, of course, but it makes no difference to the way I feel about myself. Can’t I stay at the rectory, where I can make myself useful? The Reverend...’
‘The rector is not expecting you back, Maryanne, not now you have been recognised by Her Grace. Your old life is behind you and a new one ahead. Do you not like the idea of living with us?’
‘You are a very kind man, I know that, and it is not ingratitude which makes me reluctant...’
‘You are not sure how you will go on, is that it?’ His gentle features broke into a smile and he patted the hand he held. ‘Have no fear, my dear, you will deal admirably with them all, I guarantee it.’
Not until she moved into Beckford Hall, smaller than Castle Cedars but nevertheless a substantial residence, did Maryanne realise quite what the changes to her way of life would mean to her. She could no longer teach at Sunday school, she had to give up her classes for the local boys, and, when she went sick visiting, instead of the warm, homely atmosphere she had always encountered before, she was greeted with uncomfortable stiffness. Worst of all, she could no longer enjoy solitary walks across the downs. The luxuries of her new position did not compensate for the restrictions on her freedom. She found herself almost envying the gypsies who camped on the downs.
They reminded her of the man who called himself Jack Daw. She had not seen him since that day at Castle Cedars and she assumed that whatever had brought him to Hampshire had taken him away again. It was extraordinary that the two places she had encountered him had both been on Danbury land and yet a good fifteen miles apart. Ought she to have told his lordship about him? If he was French, was he an émigré, son of an aristocrat who had fled the Revolution, or was he a Bonapartist, a prisoner of war, or a spy? But the war had been over since the beginning of April; there was no longer any need for him to hide.
Ever since the news had broken, the whole country had been celebrating. The flags of the Bourbons flew on every building and hawkers selling fleurs-de-lis and white cockades were doing a roaring trade, and wherever crowds gathered there were pie sell
ers and peddlers of ballads and news sheets, which told of the last days of Napoleon’s reign. Marshal Marmont, left behind to defend Paris while Boney himself went to make a last attempt to repel his enemies, had surrendered the capital to the victorious Prussian troops, and not even Napoleon’s faithful generals would continue fighting after that. Their Emperor had abdicated and agreed to retire to the island of Elba with an army of fewer than a thousand men and a navy which consisted of a single frigate. The news had arrived in England a few days later, almost before it could reach the Duke of Wellington, down in the south of France, preparing to take Toulouse.
There were balls and receptions everywhere in honour of this or that dignitary or valiant officer, and in London Louis, restored to the throne of France, held a levee at Grillons, to which everyone of importance was invited.
Hearing all this, nothing would satisfy Caroline but they must bring forward the date of their removal to London, so as not to miss a single minute. ‘King Louis is bound to leave for Paris soon,’ she said after supper one evening, when her father and Mark joined the girls in the drawing-room. ‘Wellington is there already and, unless I miss my guess, half the world will follow suit.’
‘If you mean the aristos, who think they can walk back on to their estates and take up their old privileges, just as if nothing had happened, they are no loss,’ Mark said.
‘I was not referring to them. I mean the haut monde. Paris will be fashionable again, you see.’
‘There will be plenty of young bloods left behind,’ her father said. ‘I’ll wager London will be in an uproar the whole summer long.’
Caroline pouted. ‘I want to go now. What is there to keep us here? Nothing ever happens in Beckford.’
His lordship smiled at Maryanne, who was sitting beside him on the sofa, sewing and taking no part in the conversation; indeed, in the few weeks she had been at Beckford Hall she had learned to keep her own counsel over Caroline’s whims. ‘And what about you, Maryanne? Is that your wish too?’
If Maryanne could wish for anything, it would be to return to the life of a nonentity, but that was denied her and because she had to make the best of her situation she stayed in the background as much as possible, allowing Caroline to shine, but sometimes Caroline’s tactless tongue cut her to the quick and she had to bite off the retort that came to her lips. When she came into her inheritance and would no longer be dependent on Lord Danbury, she would leave and take up some occupation where she could be useful and not have to think constantly of her position.
‘Please, don’t take me into account,’ she said, lifting her eyes from her sewing. ‘If you wish to go to London, I shall be quite content to remain here.’
‘There you are, Papa.’ Caroline sat back on the sofa with a smile of satisfaction. ‘Maryanne does not want to come, and, besides, who will escort her?’
‘I will,’ said Mark, beaming at Maryanne over the newspaper he was reading. ‘I have promised myself a little of her company.’
Maryanne, threading a needle, did not see the look which passed from father to son, but if she had she would not have known how to interpret it. Only Mark understood its warning and it tickled his fancy that he could put his father out of humour simply by paying court to his cousin. She was as demure as a whore at a christening, but he suspected that underneath that quiet countenance was an independent spirit and a fire which once set alight would be difficult to extinguish. If he could make it burn for him, then some of his difficulties might be overcome.
‘The Duchess is still very ill,’ James said. ‘We can hardly go if His Grace thinks it inappropriate.’
‘Like everyone else, he has already gone,’ Caroline said. ‘I had a letter from Georgiana Halesworth. She was at Louis’s reception and saw the Duke there.’ She giggled. ‘She said the French King is even fatter than the Prince.’
Mark laughed and began to sing. ‘And France’s hope and Britain’s heir were, in truth, a most congenial pair; Two round-bellied, thriving rakes, Like oxen fed on linseed cakes.’
Caroline laughed. ‘Oh, capital! Where did you hear that?’
‘It’s all the crack,’ Mark said. ‘There’s more’
‘Enough!’ said James sternly, though there was a twinkle in his eye. ‘Mark, that is hardly a drawing-room ballad.’
‘Can we go?’ Caroline persisted. ‘I know for a fact Lady Markham is holding a ball at the end of the month and we won’t be invited if we’re not even in town.’
‘I shall have to write to your aunt Emma to find out if it is convenient for her,’ her father said. ‘And I must ride over and see how my aunt progresses.’
‘You mean we can go?’ cried Caroline, getting up to throw her arms round her father’s neck. ‘I shall have to have a new ball gown. In fact, Papa, I shall need...’
He smiled and disengaged himself. ‘I know, a whole new trousseau.’
‘But it is my coming out.’
‘And Maryanne’s,’ he said, getting up to go and write his letter. ‘Do not forget your cousin.’
‘I do hope Her Grace holds out until the end of the season,’ Caroline said, as the door shut on him. ‘I should hate to have to spend the rest of the summer in black gloves, and if I have to wait another year for my coming out I shall be at my last prayers.’
‘Don’t be a ninny, Carrie,’ Mark said. ‘You’re only eighteen, there is plenty of time yet.’
‘Most of my friends are already spoken for and I have not even been introduced to anyone I half like,’ his sister went on. ‘And I should like a title. You will be a Viscount one day, but unless I marry one...’
‘Oh, I have my eyes on more than that,’ the young man said airily. ‘If Cousin Henry don’t have an heir, Father will become Duke of Wiltshire and I will be a Marquis and next in line for the dukedom. And you will be Lady Caroline in your own right.’
‘Should you be speaking so about the Duke?’ Maryanne asked mildly. ‘It is only natural he should want an heir.’
‘You don’t know him, Maryanne,’ Mark said. ‘He’s fat and drinks too much and no pretty girl is safe anywhere near him. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to marry him.’
‘Cousin Jane did,’ Caroline said.
‘Yes, poor dote, but that was before she knew what her portion was - the life of a brood mare. How any girl could contemplate that I can’t imagine.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Caroline said with a laugh. ‘With money and a title, most things can be endured and a wealthy wife can always take a handsome lover.’
‘I say, Sis, you wouldn’t marry him, would you?’ he said anxiously. ‘You don’t fancy being the next Duchess of Wiltshire? You’d end up like Cousin Jane, in your grave, alongside half a dozen dead babies.’
‘Do you think His Grace will allow us to have our own reception at Wiltshire House?’ she said, ignoring his question. ‘Oh, that would be bang up!’
He shrugged. ‘If he thought it would find him another wife, I fancy he might.’
‘Then I shall suggest it.’ She turned to Maryanne. ‘Wiltshire House is much grander than Danbury House - almost a palace - and it has the most elegant ballroom. We must have an orchestra and a tenor to sing the latest ditties.’ She whirled round in excitement. ‘And there must be flowers everywhere and piles of exotic fruit. There will be no difficulty now the war is over and all those horrid blockades are done with.’ She sat down at the escritoire and drew some sheets of paper towards her. ‘Mark, you must tell me the names of all the handsome young officers back from the campaigns. Some of them come from good families, don’t they?’
‘If you are looking for plump pockets, you’ll not find many in the army,’ he said laconically. ‘You should be considering a nabob or a merchantman, someone who has grown rich by the war.’
‘Mark, what nonsense you talk! I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. When I marry it will be someone of breeding as well as wealth.’
‘I can see you are going to be difficult to please,’ he said, then, turning to Ma
ryanne, ‘What about you, Maryanne? What do you look for in a husband?’
‘Me?’ she said, feeling the warmth flood into her face. ‘A man I can love and one who loves me.’
‘And must he also be rich and handsome?’
‘No, just good.’
‘Good?’ queried Caroline with a squeal of laughter. ‘I have yet to meet a man I could describe in those terms, and, besides, how dull life would be.’ For the first time she noticed what Maryanne was doing. ‘What have you got there?’
‘It is a hassock cover from the church. I hate to be idle and I have so much spare time nowadays, I thought I would repair all the hassocks. I brought this one home last Sunday.’
‘The village women do that sort of thing. You should not stoop so low, Maryanne.’
‘I do not call beautifying the church stooping, Caroline.’
‘Oh, spare me the sermon, Maryanne. What will you wear for Lady Markham’s ball?’
‘I do not dance, so I haven’t given it a thought.’
‘Don’t dance!’ Caroline exclaimed, then, ‘No, of course not; the Reverend Mr Cudlipp would hardly consider dancing a suitable pastime, would he? How dreary for you to have to stay at home when we go.’
‘She will not stay at home,’ Mark said. ‘I shall teach her the steps, including the waltz. She will not be left out.’
‘It is very kind of you,’ Maryanne murmured. ‘But really I would rather not put you to the bother.’
‘Stuff!’ he said. ‘It will be my privilege. I will not hear of your being left behind. And, to be sure, I shall be hard pressed to cut out all the suitors who will doubtless be dangling after you.’
‘Oh, Mark, what humbug you do talk,’ Caroline said. ‘One would think you intended to offer for her yourself.’
‘If you want to talk about me as if I were not here,’ Maryanne said, getting up from her seat abruptly, ‘I will make it easy for you and take my leave. Goodnight to you both. She collected up her sewing in the surprised silence that followed and left them.
