by Mary Nichols
On the other hand, Mark’s background was an open book, his intentions clear and unequivocal; there was no mystery about him. If she married Mark, she knew exactly what her life would be like. Why did she persist in trying to compare the incomparable? She leaned forward as the jackdaw swooped on a group of sparrows pecking at crumbs on the grass, scattering them, then soared away into the sky. Le choucas, wild, free, a thief.
Mark returned just in time for supper. He greeted her with a swift peck on the cheek and a, ‘Hello, Maryanne, glad to see you are none the worse for your adventure.’ Then turned to the subject of the curricle race, which he had decided was to be held in the grounds of Castle Cedars. He was so full of it, she could not speak to him of their engagement, which he took so much for granted.
‘His Grace declines to return to London,’ he said, as they went into the dining-room. ‘He maintains it is because of his mother’s illness, but I think he’d as lief cancel the whole thing, having no stomach for anything that requires a little exertion...’
‘Then why don’t you call it off?’ Maryanne put in. ‘Is it so important?’
‘Of course it is.’ He seated himself opposite her and beckoned a servant. ‘A man must pay his debts.’
‘And suppose you lose?’
‘I will not lose.’ His features were set in hard lines, his dark brows drawn together in angry determination. ‘I have the best team in the land and I can’t lose.’
‘And have the others agreed to race at Castle Cedars?’
‘Others?’ He watched the footman heap his plate with food. ‘Oh, you mean that rascally Frenchman. He agreed to any time or place I cared to mention and he cannot back out of it now without losing what little honour he has left.’
‘Do you hate him so much?’
He turned sharply to search her face and she felt the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘You look embarrassed, madam, but I hope it is not because you have a liking for the damned fellow’s kisses.’
‘No, no, how can you say that?’ She felt like a Judas; she should have told him the truth. She cared for Adam’s kisses more than Adam cared for hers. He had made a fool of her and denied he had any feeling for her and that must be the end of it. Mark, at least, was a gentleman, worth two of Adam Saint-Pierre.
‘It was you who suggested they should race in the country,’ Caroline said. ‘You can hardly grumble if Mark takes your advice.’
‘If we race on private land there will be no chance of injuring bystanders, will there?’ Mark said.
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘You might show a little more enthusiasm, my dear, the outcome affects you too, you know.’
‘How?’ Surely he didn’t mean that she was included in the wager? She shuddered and took a sip of wine to steady herself. ‘I have been assured that it has nothing to do with me.’
‘Oh, and who told you that? Could it have been that damned Frenchie? Have you seen him again? If you have...’
‘It was Lady Markham,’ she said quickly. ‘She said the race was really between you and His Grace to settle a gambling debt.’
‘So it is,’ he said, regaining his good humour. ‘But the outcome affects our future prospects. You must surely be interested in whether you are marrying a rich man or a poor man?’
‘I am not marrying you for your money,’ she said. ‘In fact...’ She stopped suddenly. Had she been going to say she did not want to marry him at all? If so, it was badly timed, with the whole family present, not to mention two or three servants standing silently in the background, able to hear every word. She was saved having to continue by his lordship.
‘Mark, I sincerely hope the stakes are not as high as that. A modest wager is one thing, but to risk all...’
Mark laughed. ‘A paltry few pounds and a pair of horses - what’s that, if not modest? I am going to Castle Cedars tomorrow to oversee the staking out of the course and make the final arrangements. I take it everyone is coming too?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ Caroline said, before anyone else could answer. ‘His Grace has thrown the whole house open and half the ton will be there. He has asked me to be his hostess, so I shan’t be going home to Beckford.’
‘In that case,’ James said firmly, ‘I think we had all better stay at Castle Cedars, so that I may be on hand to help.’
Caroline had not exaggerated; the country home of the Duke of Wiltshire was crowded with guests, many of whom, Maryanne was convinced, he did not even know. And because Mark was busy supervising the laying out of the course for the race and Caroline was in a seventh heaven ordering His Grace’s servants about and deciding on who should have which room, what they would all eat and how they would all be seated at the table, Maryanne was largely ignored. On the second day, after paying her respects to her grandmother, she decided to go for a walk through the woods.
Estate workers were busy marking out the course with stakes driven into the ground and joined by white-painted rope. Maryanne followed its line where it began in a meadow behind the house, across the park and then up over a rise, where she was able to look out across the downs, almost to the sea. She stood a moment, breathing deeply, remembering the walks along the shore she had taken with her mother, who had looked wistfully out across the grey sea as if her happiness lay beyond it. Had she been thinking of her family? Had she ever wished they could be reunited?
Had she accepted the estrangement as the price she had to pay for love? If only she had been able to talk to her about it, Maryanne might have been better able to understand her own feelings now.
She remembered her own words with something akin to anguish: a man I can love and one who loves me. At no time had she wondered what she would do if she fell in love with someone who did not return that love; it put a whole new complexion on things.
She made herself stop thinking about it; it would be time enough to make decisions after the race, after Mark or Adam or the Duke had won, after all the excitement was over and the guests had gone. She turned and followed the white rope as it wound down the hill, round a pond, and entered the wood. Some of the trees had been hacked down to make the path wide enough for one curricle, perhaps two at a pinch, and the ground levelled. The felled trees had been stripped of their branches and the logs piled up to one side of the new track. This part of the wood had been spoiled, desecrated for the sake of one day’s sport, for man’s vanity which went by the name of honour. She could hear the sound of axes and men’s voices as she made her way along the course.
‘‘Elp he said he needed, and ‘elp ‘e shall ‘ave,’ said one somewhat breathlessly. ‘This ‘n should do it.’
‘How d’yer know it’ll work?’
‘I shall see that it do. Now do you tidy up them branches and get ‘em off’n the track.’ The man who had been speaking looked up as Maryanne came round the slight curve in the track which brought her into sight. ‘Mornin’, miss.’ He was standing by a large oak which had just been felled. Its foliage had been stripped and it had been cut into logs and these were piled alongside the track. His companion was busy dragging the smaller branches along the path and piling them up to one side. ‘It’s a grand day for it,’ he went on, as Maryanne stopped.
‘Yes, indeed, but what a pity to lose so many fine trees.’
‘They’ll make good logs for the winter and there’s plenty more; don’t you fret over a few trees. Why, they felled thousands when they wanted warships, and you can’t tell the difference.’ He kicked the ground. ‘Just look at all them acorns-they’ll most on ‘em make trees theirselves, one day.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘You going’ to watch the race, miss?’
‘Yes.’
‘Won’t see much in the woods,’ he said, giving a meaningful look at his companion, who had stopped work and was staring at her with his mouth open. ‘Why not go back to the park and see Lord Danbury start ‘em off? Then you c’n move over to the finish and cheer the winner in.’
They stoo
d, blocking the path, and she was reluctant to force a way past them. ‘You don’t want to be on the track when they come along, do you, miss? Three curricles going full tilt will take a deal of stopping, ‘specially on this narrow part.’
‘There is plenty of time,’ she said. ‘They are not starting until two o’clock.’
‘Beg pardon, miss, they’ve changed it. It’s noon the gun’s bein’ fired. Mr Danbury said they’d all have a better appetite for dinner once the race was over with. He came along an’ told us so hisself.’
She had no idea of the time but it had gone ten when she set out and she had spent some time on the hill before coming into the wood; it could not be far off midday. She turned to retrace her steps, leaving the men to finish clearing the track.
She had not gone far when she heard the crack of a pistol and a distant cheer. They had started! How long before they reached the spot where she stood? The wood-cutter had been right about the narrowness of the track; she did not want to be caught in the middle of it. She stepped off the path and among the trees to wait until they had passed.
If was another minute to two before she heard the thunder of hoofs, the crack of whips and the shouts of the drivers, and then they came into view. Mark was in the lead, but only just. He stood in the vehicle like a Roman charioteer, cracking his whip over the backs of his horses and yelling encouragement to them. Behind him the Duke and Adam were neck and neck, their horses thundering side by side and the wheels of their carriages almost locking. Adam looked grim and determined, while His Grace’s face was purple with the effort of controlling his high-spirited horses. He was staring ahead at the narrowing path and yet Maryanne had the feeling he saw nothing, that he was lost to outside influences. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stop the cry which might have distracted them as they hurtled past her with their outside wheels off the prepared track and rumbling over undergrowth. When they came to the narrow part of the course, where the logs were piled up, one of them would have to give way. She found herself running after them, without knowing why she did it. They disappeared round the curve. She heard a shout of warning, then the sound of a crash and after that the neighing of frightened horses.
She stopped abruptly when she rounded the bend and saw the carnage. The first curricle must have touched one of the piles of logs and brought the whole lot cascading down. One of the carriages had been smashed beyond recognition, the other lay on its side. A horse lay dead, another lay shrieking its terror, and the others had broken free and were careering down the path and out of sight. She could see neither driver.
She heard a stream of curses which, luckily for her, were mostly in French, and ran over to Adam’s upturned curricle. He hauled himself out of it and stood beside her. His face and hands were cut and bruised and his clothing was torn, but he appeared to have no other injuries.
She realised she was sobbing as she put out a hand to help him. ‘Oh, I am sorry, so sorry...’
‘Stop talking nonsense, woman,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’m not hurt, at least, no more than a few bumps where there shouldn’t be. Go and look to His Grace.’
She turned to look around her. The Duke’s curricle was nothing more than firewood, crushed under a great tree-trunk, and there was blood all over the place. She was almost afraid to look.
Adam strode over to it ahead of her and heaved at the tree-trunk which imprisoned the curricle, hacking at the greenery with the little dagger he always wore at his belt. ‘Here, give me a hand.’ She lent her weight to his and they managed to shift the timber far enough to see the Duke, and then she was almost sick on the spot. His Grace was laying in a grotesque position, his legs doubled up under him, his head flung back and blood pouring from a wound in his chest where a sliver of wood, as sharp as a sword, stuck out through this torn coat. Adam reached out and touched him. There was no response; he did not groan or flinch, nor was there the slightest flicker in his eyes. ‘He’s dead,’ he said flatly.
‘What are we going to do?’
He stopped throwing broken pieces of wood to one side and looked at her, as if for the first time. ‘Where did you spring from?’
‘I was standing in the trees when you went past. I was going for a walk. There were two woodmen here, they must have heard what happened. Do you think they went for help?’
He shrugged. ‘If they were responsible for the dangerous way those trunks were piled up, I hardly think they’d wait about to face the music.’
‘But you were both trying to get through the gap at once; one of you should have given way.’ Had she really meant to sound as if she was blaming him? She wanted to explain that her relief at finding him unhurt made her say things she didn’t really mean. It was no more his fault than the Duke’s, and really the track had been made too narrow. But, before she could frame the words, Mark, together with two or three estate workers, came hurrying through the trees and there was no chance to say anything.
Adam’s curricle was righted, the horses caught and harnessed to it so that the body could be taken back to the house. Maryanne, walking beside Mark as he led the horses, moved as if in a nightmare. No one spoke until they came out of the trees into the sunlight of the park, where a crowd of people thronged about the finishing tape, many of them still holding the glasses with which they had toasted Mark’s victory. Now they turned, almost in unison, and watched the approaching cavalcade, Mark, leading the horses, the estate workers, Adam and Maryanne.
It seemed to take a lifetime to reach the silent watchers and then everything exploded round them; hands reaching out, exclamations of horror, a scream from Caroline, and James, tight-lipped, sending everyone away and taking charge of the situation, issuing orders and then leaving to go and break the news to the Dowager. Above it all, Mark’s voice was loud and insistent. ‘He could not win by fair means; he had to resort to trickery. In my book, that is murder.’
‘No! No!’ Maryanne cried. ‘You can’t mean that, you can’t. It was an accident, the path was too narrow...’ She stopped speaking, suddenly aware that everyone else had become silent and turned towards her. ‘I mean,’ she added nervously, ‘those two men must have misunderstood your orders about the trees.’
‘What two men?’ His dark eyes narrowed. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The woodmen I met. They were clearing the wood.’
‘That was all done yesterday; there was no one working there today.’
‘But I saw them...’
He took her arm to lead her away from the curious onlookers. ‘Maryanne, my dear, you are distraught and no wonder.’ His voice was calm and affectionate, though his grip was painfully tight. ‘Go and rest and leave us to do what we have to do.’
She looked past him to where Adam stood beside his curricle from which the body had been removed. He did not speak but his expression was one of fury and there was a noticeable twitch to the corner of his eye which lifted the tiny scar and gave his face a lop-sided appearance; one side was unlined and handsome, the other bore the evidence of a life she could only guess at. He had been a soldier; death was no stranger to him, but he would not kill needlessly - she had to believe that, wanted his assurance of it. She pulled herself away from Mark and took a step towards him, then stopped when she realised there was nothing she could do or say which would change anything. The Duke was dead, killed in an accident, and when Mark had time to think clearly he would realise how unjust he had been.
She turned and went into the house and up to her room. Even there, she could not escape; her window overlooked the park, where everyone had gathered in such high spirits for the start and finish of the race and where they now milled about, discussing the disaster and speculating about the reason for it. The speculation would go on for days, weeks perhaps, and it had not been helped by Mark’s outburst. What had made him say it? What justification was there for it? He had been responsible for laying out the course, not Adam.
Her knees buckled and she sank on to her bed as Beth Markham’s words came fo
rcefully to her mind. ‘Luck will not be enough. If you are determined to win, then you will need more help than that.’ They found an echo in the woodman’s words: ‘‘Elp he said he needed, and ‘elp ‘e shall ‘ave.’
From across the room, her reflection came back at her from the long mirror, a white-faced, wide-eyed young lady in a torn white gown, covered in mud and blood. Her hair had come down and there was a leafy twig caught in it. It was like looking at a stranger, a wild, deranged stranger. ‘Meet Miss Maryanne Paynter,’ she said, with a cracked laugh. ‘Granddaughter of the fourth Duke of Wiltshire, intended bride of the Honourable Mark Danbury and prize fool. Oh...’ The girl in the mirror put a hand up that shook uncontrollably, and removed the twig. ‘Correct that. Not the Honourable Mark, things have changed; he is the Marquis of Beckford now that his lordship is the new Duke. The lady has made a good match.’
She flung herself back on the bed and pulled the pillow over her head, both to deny that accusing reflection and shut out the sounds from outside, but she could not shut out her thoughts. They whirled about in her head, giving her no peace, and at their centre was a tall proud figure of a man with laughing brown eyes and gentle hands. ‘Oh, Adam, why? Why?’ But she was not talking about the accident.
Chapter Six
Outside the sun shone and the birds sang but inside the church was cold. Through the open door Maryanne could see the grave-diggers, standing by the newly opened vault, waiting to seal it again. Only the essential work of looking after the animals was being done, and even the haymaking had been halted, so that all the estate workers and servants could attend the funeral. They stood at the back, in their Sunday best, heads downcast, fumbling with prayer books, and waited while friends and relatives of the family filed into their places. The day seemed timeless, eternal, caught between the living and the dead.
As the rector began the service, Maryanne, standing beside a tight-lipped Mark, became aware that a latecomer had tiptoed in through the open door and had slipped into a pew at the back of the church. It was not until they turned to file out behind the coffin that she realised, with a gasp of astonishment, that it was Adam; as far as she knew he had left immediately after Henry’s body had been carried into the house. She glanced at Mark, but he continued to acknowledge the curtsies of the village women and the nodding heads of the men, and did not appear to have noticed him. He had maintained that Adam’s departure and the disappearance of the two workmen, who had not been estate workers at all and had probably been paid by the Frenchman to upset the logs, was a sure sign of the man’s guilt, and he would never dare show his face again. But here he was, tall and upright as ever, his head held proudly, for all the world as if he had a right to be among the congregation. If Mark had him arrested and she was called upon to give evidence, what would she do? Could she maintain her silence? Ought she to? She looked across the aisle at James, but he had not seen him either.
