by Mary Nichols
She ran up to her own room and shut the door behind her. Caroline was the outside of enough! If it were not for her determination to keep the peace and her complete indifference to the hierarchy of Society she would show that spoiled young miss just how a lady should behave. Not that she agreed with the half of it; it was all a sham, this business of bringing out young ladies and parading them in front of all the eligible young men, like so many animals at market. She fully intended to hold herself aloof from it. They would call her toplofty, as Jack Daw had done, but she didn’t care.
She crossed to the window and drew aside the curtains so that she could look out on the starlit night. Sitting in the window-seat, she leaned her head against the wall, a smile hovering round her lips. She wasn’t against balls and if the man of her dreams were to arrive at one and ask her to dance, then she would not turn him away. The man of her dreams. Who was he?
She found her thoughts wandering to the handsome stranger she had first met in Beckford woods; thinking about him took her mind off Caroline’s ungracious behaviour. In the privacy of her room she could weave romantic stories about him, and it didn’t matter in the least how fanciful they were because she was unlikely ever to discover the truth about him. Even so, her cheeks still burned when she thought of that kiss; how could she have been so unthinking as to let it happen? And the worst of it was, she had liked it.
Almost as if conjuring him up, she saw a dark figure cross the park down by the lake, and leaned forward in her seat to see the better, conscious of the quickening of her heartbeat. He was striding quite purposefully towards the bank of trees which began a little above the water to her left. When he reached them, he paused and turned to look up at the house. She shrank back into the shadows and peered out at him from behind the curtains. What was he looking at? Had he seen her? Did he mean to harm anyone in the house? Again she wondered if she ought to tell his lordship or Mark about him. If she did, his lordship would ask a great many questions about when she had seen him before, why she had not mentioned it and why she thought a man doing nothing in particular constituted a threat. Was he a threat? She wasn’t sure. If they hunted him down, he would be dragged up before a magistrate, and what harm had he done, except hold her in his arms and kiss away her tears?
Out of humour with herself for being such a ninny as to remember a kiss he had undoubtedly forgotten, she twitched the curtains across and turned back into the room to prepare for bed, forgetting, as she so often did, to ring for her maid to help her. The man was probably poaching, and, though she ought not to condone that, she didn’t see how his lordship could begrudge an odd rabbit now and again; he had certainly not complained that poaching was any great problem. Besides, they would all leave for London in a few days and she need think no more of him and what he was up to. She climbed into bed and blew out the candle.
The next morning was warmer than any day of the year so far and Maryanne decided to walk to the church to return the newly repaired hassock and fetch another. His lordship had ridden out to Castle Cedars; Caroline, never one to rise early, was still abed, and Mark had gone out to the home farm, which was his particular responsibility, so she set out alone, taking the path across the park and round the lake. She was alert for Jack Daw, telling herself that she would not let him surprise her for a third time with his sudden appearance, but she reached the village street without seeing any sign of him and let herself into the church, wondering why she felt so downcast.
It was dim and cool and she shivered slightly as she replaced the hassock in his lordship’s pew and selected another for her attentions. Turning to leave, she noticed the vestry door was open and, wondering at the rector’s being so careless, moved over to shut it. Jack Daw was standing at the table with the parish register open in front of him, running his finger down the page as he scanned it.
‘Mr Daw!’ She could not say his name without smiling, however hard she tried. ‘What are you doing here?’
He whirled round to face her, his hand reaching for the dagger in his belt, but when he saw her his belligerent attitude changed suddenly to an elegant bow accompanied by a broad smile. ‘Good morning, Mam’selle Paynter; a fine morning, is it not? You, too, like to be up betimes, I see.’
‘I asked you a question,’ she said, determined to keep cool and not allow her swiftly beating heart to betray her. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Looking for a past.’
‘Whose past? Yours? Lord Danbury’s?’
He looked at her sharply and the humour went from his eyes; they became hard and unrelenting. ‘Why did you mention Lord Danbury?’
‘No reason, except that whenever I see you, you are on Danbury land. I have a mind to speak to his lordship about you...’
‘Do you mean you have not already done so?’ he asked in surprise.
She coloured. ‘You asked me not to.’
He took a step towards her and laid a hand on her arm. ‘Is that reason enough, when you so obviously think I am up to no good?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘A poacher or a spy, I think you said.’
‘The war is over.’
‘For the moment,’ he said, and there was a grim sound to his voice which made her look up at him sharply.
‘What do you mean? Napoleon has capitulated.’
‘He does what is expedient at the time, as any good general does; it is dangerous to be complacent.’
She gasped. ‘You do not think he is beaten?’
He shrugged. ‘Who can tell? He has promised to return with the violets.’
‘Are you a spy?’
He laughed suddenly. ‘An’ I were, why come here? There is nothing here to interest Napoleon Bonaparte. And that leaves only the poaching.’ He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to his. ‘Do I look like a poacher?’
His eyes were burning into hers, searching out her deepest thoughts, and that embarrassed her because at that moment she was thinking of that kiss and wondering if he was going to repeat it, and what she would do if he did. Her limbs were trembling, but she met his gaze steadfastly. ‘I do not know that poachers have anything in their looks to make them stand out. If they did, there would be many more arrests.’
‘Touché!’ He laughed and she realised that it was his light-heartedness which she found so attractive. He made her feel happy.
‘You have not answered my question,’ she said. ‘What are you doing in Beckford?’
‘Where else can I feast my eyes on such loveliness?’
She drew herself up to her full five feet four. ‘Mr Daw, I do not find your remarks amusing.’
He chuckled. ‘I can see through your bravado, you know. You are standing there affecting to be unafraid but really quaking in your shoes lest I try and take liberties again.’
‘How arrogant you are!’
‘No, honest.’ His voice dropped until it was little more than a whisper. ‘Are you afraid of me?’
‘No. ‘
‘Why not? Anyone else would have been swooning or screaming for help by now.’
‘I am made of sterner stuff,’ she said, clasping her hands round the hassock so that he would not see them trembling. ‘If you meant to harm me, you would have done so before now.’
‘Of course I won’t harm you. Why should I? But I won’t promise not to kiss you again.’ He paused and lifted a hand to touch her cheek with a gentle finger. Startled by the sensations that evoked, she stepped back out of his reach. ‘You are different from the others...’
‘Have there been many others?’ she asked before she could stop herself. ‘I should not like to be counted one of many.’
‘You are unique,’ he said, laughing. ‘But I was referring to other young ladies of fashion, like the Honourable Caroline Danbury.’ He turned his head on one side to survey her from her brown kid boots to her plain straw bonnet, tied on with ribbon which exactly matched her candid blue eyes, from small strong hands to pink cheeks now flaming with colour. ‘Could it be
the difference between a hot-house bloom and an English rose?’
‘Oh, and which do you prefer?’ She shouldn’t be having this conversation with him, she told herself; it was almost flirting, and it could lead to... oh, anywhere, and she was playing with fire.
‘They both have their place,’ he said solemnly, but there was laughter in his brown eyes, as if he was enjoying teasing her. ‘But at this moment I have eyes only for the English rose.’
She felt herself colour under his scrutiny and turned away. ‘I must go back.’
‘Back?’
‘Home, to Beckford Hall. Where else?’
‘Oh, dear, that has the sound of hopelessness about it. Surely a young lady as young and beautiful as you are has plans for her future?’
‘Perhaps I have.’
He smiled. ‘But they are secret? Ah, well, I don’t expect you to tell me. Keep your pride, it is your best defence.’
‘Against what?’
‘Life’s little set-backs. The disappointments, the dreams that fade, other people’s censure.’
It was as if he knew all about her without having to be told, and it was most disconcerting. ‘How do you know so much?’ she asked.
He answered her with another question. ‘Are you happy there?’
‘Yes, of course. They are very kind.’
‘Kind! Is that all you ask, that people be kind?’ His voice softened. ‘You deserve more than kindness, little one.’
‘You, sir, are impertinent.’
‘Your pardon.’ He sighed melodramatically and bent over her hand. ‘Au revoir, mam’selle, until the next time we meet.’
‘There will be no next time. We are all leaving for London very soon. Caroline is coming out.’
‘And what about you?’
‘Me too.’
‘You are to be put on the marriage market, are you? How do you feel about that?’
‘How I feel is nothing to do with you.’ His prying was annoying her because he seemed to be able to dig deep into her innermost thoughts, to unearth her anxieties and lay bare her secret dreams.
‘Do you think that is the best way to find the love of your life?’
‘And what do you know of it? It is the custom and usually it works very well.’
‘Perhaps for the Miss Danburys of this world, but not for you. I would have expected you to be more independent.’ Before she could think of an appropriate retort, he went on, ‘Tell me, what connection is that young lady to you?’
‘Her father and my mother were first cousins.’
‘Cousins? I hadn’t realised you were truly one of the family. I thought...’
What had he thought? That she was a governess or companion? She drew herself up to her full height and tilted her chin. ‘Mr Daw, I will have you know that the Duke of Wiltshire is my uncle...’
‘Then my condolences, ma’am.’ The teasing look left his eyes as he bowed to her. ‘I bid you good-day.’
She watched him stride away, with a feeling of deep disappointment in the pit of her stomach. They had been enjoying a bantering light-hearted flirtation which had been perfectly harmless and then all of a sudden it had turned sour, and all because her pride had been dented and she must boast of her breeding. ‘Bufflehead!’ she scolded herself.
He did not like the Danburys; the more she saw of him, the more convinced she became of it. What had he against them? If anyone had cause to be resentful, she had, because of her mother, but had he also suffered at their hands? Could he be bent on revenge? Who was he? His name was not Jack Daw, of that she was certain, and he was certainly not a gypsy. If Lord Danbury had not insisted on her accompanying them all to London, she would have tried to find out more about him. As it was, he would have to remain a mystery, unless, of course, he was still in Beckford when they returned in the autumn.
She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she did not hear the sound of footsteps, until a shadow fell across the stone floor at her feet. Startled, she looked up, thinking he had returned, but it was Mark.
‘Who was that fellow I saw leaving?’ he asked, using his crop to indicate the open door.
Maryanne had stepped across to look at the register the Frenchman had been scrutinising and was surprised to see the page open at the year 1787. The name Mark James Danbury leapt out at her. Without knowing why she did it, she shut the book before Mark could see it and turned, with as much composure as she could muster, to answer him. ‘I have no idea who he was. He was in the church when I arrived. We exchanged greetings and he was perfectly civil.’ She had missed the opportunity to tell him of her suspicions, and now it would be even more difficult to do so.
‘It is not only unseemly, but dangerous to speak to strangers, Maryanne.’ He took her arm. ‘I think I had better tell the Reverend Mr Cudlipp to keep a watch on the church plate. And it would be better if you did not walk out alone again.’
‘Why not? I surely do not need an escort to come to the village, where everyone knows me. I don’t suddenly stop being the parson’s ward just because the Dowager Duchess of Wiltshire takes it into her head to recognise me after all these years.’
He opened his mouth to scold her, changed his mind and his tone softened. ‘Maryanne, you are already very dear to me and I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you.’ He was infuriatingly confident as he took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm and turned to leave.
‘I told you, we hardly spoke. You are making something of nothing.’
‘Your well-being is not nothing, Maryanne. I do not think you realise how important it is to me.’ He shut the lych-gate behind them and took her arm again. ‘I went home to ask if you would like to ride out, but you were nowhere to be found. You told no one where you were going.’
‘How did you know where to look for me, then?’
‘Your maid said you had taken the hassock with you, so it was not difficult to guess.’ He smiled. ‘Come, we will be back in time for luncheon, if we hurry, and perhaps Father will have returned home with the news that Her Grace remains tolerably well and we can all set off for London. I am looking forward to being your escort and the envy of the whole ton.’
She smiled at his compliment, and together they walked back to Beckford Hall, unaware that brown eyes watched their progress and the owner of the eyes was cursing his ill luck in voluble and colourful French.
Chapter Three
As soon as they were all installed at Danbury House, in Piccadilly, Caroline, accompanied by a reluctant Maryanne, began a round of visits to friends who had also arrived in the capital, a pastime which was punctuated with receiving callers, shopping, carriage rides in the park and endless gossip. They were always chaperoned by Mrs Ryfield. Several years younger than her brother, Emma Ryfield was still a very handsome woman, with sleek dark hair and the Danbury brown eyes. James had told her to treat both girls alike and to make sure they were seen in the right places, spoke to the right people and were invited to the right gatherings, and she was to ensure that they were not plagued by the attentions of undesirables. Maryanne entered into the social whirl with rather less enthusiasm than Caroline, who spent much of her time speculating on the number of proposals she was likely to receive and looking daily for the longed-for invitations to Lady Markham’s ball which arrived one morning when they were sitting over a late breakfast.
‘A masked ball!’ Caroline said, ripping hers open. ‘And only a week away.’ She turned to Maryanne, eyes alight with excitement. ‘What shall I wear? Something striking, of course.’ She got up and paced the room, waving the invitation in front of her face like a fan, while Maryanne watched from her seat. ‘I think I shall go as Queen Elizabeth.’ She turned to her cousin and surveyed her critically. ‘What about you?’
‘I will find something,’ Maryanne said, but when she refused to divulge what she had decided on Caroline spent some time persuading her that if she had nothing suitable to wear it would be useless for her to go.
Mark would not hea
r of that. ‘I shall be quite cast down if you don’t come,’ he told Maryanne. ‘I shall expect at least three dances, so that everyone will see what a handsome couple we make.’ He sat down beside her on the chaise-longue where she was sewing, and added softly, ‘We do, you know. I shall be the envy of the ton.’
By the time the carriages arrived at the front door on the Friday evening to take them to Bedford Row, even Maryanne had yielded to the excitement.
She took a last look at herself in the mirror and was pleased with what she saw, though she wondered if her dress might be too plain for a costume ball. It was one of her mother’s which she had kept because the material was so fine, and because Mama had been very fond of it, though as far as Maryanne could remember she never had occasion to wear it. Its overskirt was of white Nottingham lace, trimmed with white satin ribbon and the underskirt of finest white silk, which draped itself into soft folds from a high waist. It showed her figure to perfection without being too daring. A wreath of greenery around curls dressed a la Grecque and a sash of twisted foliage across her shoulder and over her breast, together with a pair of silver sandals, put the finishing touches to her idea of what a wood nymph might look like. She smiled to herself remembering Jack Daw, who had given her the idea.
‘Oh, Miss Maryanne, you look so pretty,’ her maid said, opening the door for her. ‘Bowl them over, you will.’
‘Thank you, Rose. You need not wait up for me.’ Trembling a little and with shining eyes, she went slowly downstairs.
Mark was already in the hall, dressed as a highwayman with a many-caped cloak and a large feathered hat. He turned from admiring himself in a long mirror and smiled up at her. ‘My, oh my!’ he exclaimed.
She smiled. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Like it?’ He laughed and came forward to take her hand. ‘I am speechless.’
‘That certainly makes a change,’ said his father, coming out of the library with Mrs Ryfield. He turned to Maryanne and for a moment looked startled. Then he smiled. ‘You look charming, my dear, so much like your mother, I was quite taken aback.’ There was a look of sadness behind his eyes which lingered for a while even after he had smiled and said, ‘You will have them all by the ears. Now, where is Caroline?’
