by M C Beaton
“It is not nonsense,” retorted Drusilla angrily. “I have been most brave. Mira felt he was being forced to marry her. She said she could not bear to be married to a man with whom she was in love but who did not love her, and so he has gone to tell her he loves her as well.”
Mr. Markham took a deep breath. “I would not have believed Grantley, at his age, to be capable of such mawkish thoughts.”
“Oh, I agree,” said Drusilla. “But I am quite decided that he and Mira are very alike, so they should suit very well.”
“It sounds like a Haymarket play,” said Mr. Markham, “but the family reputation is saved, for I was about to cancel the renewed notice of the engagement, and that would have caused even more fuss. I should be very angry with you, Drusilla, for not telling us in the first place where Mira had gone, but all has worked out very well.”
“I think you have done splendidly,” said Charles, his eyes now glowing with admiration.
And Drusilla agreed.
Mira was bored and lonely. Mr. and Mrs. George, the caretakers, had grumbled dreadfully at her arrival, and she had said she would attend to herself, correctly divining that their discontent was caused by the thought of any extra work.
Once she had removed her masculine clothes, she found she was reluctant to put them on again, feeling that if she had behaved more like a lady, then the marquess might not have been so indifferent to her.
And so she saddled up her mare, Sally, with a sidesaddle, and wearing an old riding dress, she rode about the countryside to tire herself out and keep all the sad thoughts at bay.
On the second day she awoke to hear steady rain drumming on the roof. The house was cold and unfired. She rose, washed, and dressed, then wondered what to do to pass the day. She had avoided the townspeople, knowing that questions would be asked about why she had returned home alone. Mrs. Dunstable, her former mentor, was visiting relatives in the south, and so she was spared her attentions. But as the day wore on and she wandered around the cold rooms, the furniture still shrouded under holland covers, she found herself wishing that Mrs. Dunstable had been around. She thought constantly of the marquess, wondering what he was doing, if he ever thought of her, or if he considered he had had a lucky escape.
At last she could bear the inactivity no longer and changed into her riding dress, saddled her mare, and rode off over the soggy lawns and along the twisting path through the home woods, wondering how she could ever have fancied herself in love with Charles. The canopy of leaves stopped the worst of the downpour from reaching her.
She dismounted, left the mare to crop the scraggly wet patches of grass on either side of the path, and sat down on a fallen log under a tree.
How many innocent dreams she had had in these very woods. How childish they seemed now. She had sat on this very log and imagined walking and talking with Charles. And then, before going to London, she had imagined herself married to him.
Now it was the marquess who filled her thoughts. But he was far away in London, and he would never walk these woods with her. In fact, it was highly unlikely she would ever see him again. Her parents would certainly not waste money on another Season for one so disgraced. Life stretched out in front of her, years of loneliness and sadness.
A tear rolled down her cheek, mingling with the rainwater. She looked up at the branches above her head. They were not such a protection as she had first thought, and she was just realizing that if she sat there much longer, she was going to become very wet indeed when she heard someone approaching. The woods were very still. She could hear someone walking toward her, even though the ground was soft.
She started up, wondering who it could be. The Georges never went into the woods—in fact, she thought, they were too lazy to even leave the house.
When she saw the tall, mud-stained, and travel-weary Marquess of Grantley, she thought for one moment that her eyes were playing tricks on her. But he came right up to her and stood before her as real as the trees and the falling rain.
“Why are you here?” she asked weakly.
“Because I love you.”
She looked wildly around. “I must be dreaming this.”
“No, darling idiot, and why did you not tell me you loved me?”
“How… how do you know?”
“You can thank the correct Drusilla for that. She not only called at my town house—without a maid, mark you—but she came in a hack, which she considered to be in the same league as scaling the Alps.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mira, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “I can hardly believe it.”
“So, my beloved, are we going to stand here discussing the merits of Drusilla, or are you going to kiss me?”
“Rupert!” She threw herself into his arms. Her first kiss was wet and clumsy. But the second landed fair and square on his mouth with such passion that he clutched hold of her like a drowning man, returning passion with passion while the rain dripped on both of them and ran down their faces.
At last he put her from him and said shakily, “I am deuced wet and tired. Let us return to the house and stir up that surly caretaker.”
They walked slowly back, Mira leading her horse. When she reached the house, she told him to go inside while she took her horse round to the stables and rubbed it down.
“Don’t you have grooms?” he asked impatiently.
“Yes, of course, but I always see to my mare myself.”
When she returned from the stables, she could hear the marquess’s voice raised in anger, demanding food and fires. As she walked in, Mr. George was saying defiantly, “I was only hired to look after this-here place, not to run about making fires and cooking meals. Me and Mrs. George is leaving.”
“Then hurry up about it,” said the marquess, “because I am sick of the sight of your face!”
“Now we are really in disgrace,” mourned Mira as she led him into the drawing room. “No chaperons at all. You had best move to the nearest inn.”
“We are to be married, so people can think what they like. We shall begin by making ourselves comfortable. I will go to the stables and get one of the lads to bring piles of wood. Strip some of the chairs of their covers, my love, for it is like living in a mausoleum. As soon as we have a roaring fire here and in the bedchambers—if you will show me which one I may sleep in—then I will change, and we will both raid the kitchen, for I am sharp-set.”
Mr. George later said he felt cheated when he learned how the marquess had paid the small stable staff to fetch wood, light fires, and make the house comfortable. If his high-and-mighty lordship had said how he was prepared to pay, Mr. George became fond of moaning, then he and the missus would have stayed.
The marquess decided they should use not the drawing room but a small morning room on the ground floor as both drawing room and dining room. When they had changed out of their wet clothes, he asked Mira, “Can you cook?”
“I am afraid I have not the slightest idea how to go on.”
“I think I can manage something,” he said. “Let us repair to the kitchen and raid the larder.”
They decided instead of carrying a meal of cold ham, bread, and cheese up to the morning room to have it by the kitchen fire.
They dined side by side at the kitchen table, kissing and eating and then kissing again.
“We are behaving shamefully,” said Mira. “I thought I was supposed to behave in a correct way.”
“You will—when we are married. We are having a little adventure.”
They fell then to talking, as lovers do, about when they had first fallen in love. “I think I must have been in love with you all along,” said the marquess. “But my pride would not let me realize it, particularly when you were drooling over your so-dear Charles.”
“‘Drooling’ is cruel, Rupert. I just had not come to my senses.”
“So, now that you have come to your senses, kiss me again.”
He lifted her onto his knees and held her close. His hands caressed her breasts, and
she felt dimly that it ought to be shocking instead of feeling like the most natural thing in the world.
At last he rose and lifted her in his arms, blew out the candles on the table, and by the light of the fire, made his way to the door.
He carried her all the way upstairs, kissing her repeatedly while the dark house seemed to reel about her.
When Mr. Markham was finally to return home, he questioned the stable staff. Had they or hadn’t they?
But all the grooms and stable lads could do was shake their heads. How could they know? They were not indoor staff.
On their return to London the marquess took Mira first to meet his mother.
“I am pleased to meet you at last,” said the dowager marchioness, looking anything but as she gave Mira a limp handshake.
“You do understand,” said the marquess, “that we are to be married?”
“I suppose so,” said his mother ungraciously. “But you have caused a great deal of scandal. First an engagement was announced—without your even telling me about it—and then it was canceled, and then it was on again. People kept asking me questions and questions, and I had to admit I did not know what my only son was doing.”
“I am sorry for that, Mother, but as you can see, you will be dancing at our wedding.”
The dowager marchioness’s eyes brightened. “A wedding, of course. Mrs. Anderson, bring me my notebook. I must make lists. Perhaps in a year’s time, or is that too soon?”
“Too late. I am getting a special license today, and we will be married quietly in a fortnight’s time.”
“Merciful heavens! More scandal!” Her old eyes raked up and down Mira’s slim figure. “I assume there is good reason for the haste.”
“Every reason. We are in love.”
His mother looked bewildered. “Love? At your age, Rupert?”
“Yes, Mother. Love.”
The dowager marchioness suddenly lost her temper. “I have prayed that you would meet some beautiful and graceful lady. But you have chosen this… I am sorry, my dear. But you are just not suitable to be the Marchioness of Grantley.”
The marquess stood up and held out his hand to Mira. “Come, my dear. Mother, I will let you know when and where the wedding is to be held. Whether you come or not is your affair. But you must never, ever again insult Mira the way you have done now.”
When they had left, the dowager marchioness began to cry. Mrs. Anderson handed her smelling salts and a handkerchief and waited until the old lady was somewhat more composed before saying quietly, “You must not distress yourself. It will all work out very well. Mira Markham is very young but generous in spirit. If you handle it well, you can be a constant visitor to their home. If you continue to be rude to her, you will not be welcome.”
“And why should I want to have anything to do with her?”
“You will want to see your grandchildren,” said Mrs. Anderson firmly. “That young lady is going to have lots of babies. You have always prayed for grandchildren, or so you told me. And now you do not want to have anything to do with a courageous and kind young lady who is going to give them to you.”
The dowager marchioness dried her eyes. “I never thought of that,” she said weakly.
“Your son, Lord Grantley, is very much in love. If you have given Miss Mira a disgust of you, you may end up estranged from him. I suggest you call on Miss Mira as soon as possible and make your amends.”
And so Mrs. Anderson went on in her gentle way, urging and manipulating until the poor dowager marchioness was thoroughly frightened by the thought that her son might not come near her again.
When she finally called for her carriage to go to the Markhams, Mrs. Anderson heaved a sigh of relief. She felt she owed Mira a great deal. Had she not been inspired by the girl’s courage, then she would still be trapped with Lady Jansen.
Lady Jansen was staying at an inn at Dover, waiting for a favorable wind to bear her over to France. There were many other English tourists waiting to embark as well. The end of hostilities with France had sent many English flocking to the ports. Paris was still the mecca of fashion, and that was where Lady Jansen was bound.
She no longer longed for the marquess. On the contrary, she hated him. She was convinced now that he had led her on disgracefully only to spurn her. She knew she would have to stay away for some time before London society forgave her. Mrs. Gardener, that arch gossip, had been the worst. Because what had fascinated Mrs. Gardener most about Lady Jansen’s story was not the scandalous behavior of Mira Markham but the scandalous behavior of Lady Jansen, who could go to such extremes out of “spite and jealousy.”
Lady Jansen had seen Mrs. Gardener in Pall Mall just before she left, and Mrs. Gardener had cut her dead.
She went out for a walk to cool her angry thoughts, looking at the masts of the ships in the harbor dancing crazily in the wind like some kind of mad forest.
She was just about to turn back when she saw a familiar face, lit by a riding light hanging from the bowsprit of a schooner. Mr. Diggs!
She marched up to him and confronted him. “Traitor!” she growled.
“Oh, it is you, my lady,” he said mildly.
“I will call for the constable and have you arrested,” raged Lady Jansen. “I will get my money back.”
“As you will,” said Mr. Diggs indifferently. “But what will you tell him, and what proof do you have? The story of your malice is only gossip at the moment, but the minute you call the constable, it will reach the newspapers and be there in black and white for the whole country to read.”
She stared at him in baffled fury. He touched his hat and walked away from her along the waterfront until the darkness swallowed him up. She was never to see him again.
The marriage of the Marquess of Grantley was a small but elegant affair. Church weddings were not fashionable, but predictably the couple had therefore decided to have a church wedding. Only close members of the family had been invited, but society crowded outside St. George’s, Hanover Square, to get a look at this pair who had caused so much gossip. Because of the speed of the wedding, bets were being laid at White’s as to whether the bride was already pregnant or not, a fact that the marquess had wisely kept from Mira.
The ceremony was moving because of the couple’s obvious love for each other. Mrs. Anderson wept quietly all the way through it, but the dowager marchioness was dry-eyed. She had done very well by affecting to be delighted with Mira, but she still thought her son was making a disastrous mistake. Mrs. Markham was weeping with sheer relief. She had lived in dread every day right up to the wedding that the fiery Mira would suddenly tell her the whole thing was off.
Mira was small and dainty in white Brussels lace and for once did not feel at all sad about or jealous of the admiration her beautiful sister was receiving as bridesmaid.
The wedding breakfast, held at the dowager marchioness’s, was accounted a pleasant affair, and then the guests crowded outside to wave good-bye to the married couple.
Charles took Drusilla’s hand in his and heaved a sigh. “How much in love they are! And so content with each other! I do not think that pair will ever exchange a cross word in the whole of their marriage.”
“I saw the way you looked at that pretty little Miss Fanshaw, and I didn’t like it one bit,” Mira was saying fiercely.
“Your own behavior was so bad, I wonder you dare to criticize mine,” retorted the marquess moodily.
“What do you mean, my behavior?”
“You kissed young Danby on the cheek. He wasn’t even a guest but waiting in the crowd outside. You had to run forward and kiss him.”
“He looked so sad, like a dog.”
“I do not care how sad he looked. As my wife you must behave yourself from now on.”
“How dare you bully me and order me about. I will not have it. I will not stand for it!”
“Mira, we are quarreling already. Kiss me.”
“No! This is an open carriage and everyone is looking.”
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br /> “Coward!”
He took her hand in his and pressed it. “Mira, my love…”
“Oh, we must not quarrel, Rupert,” cried Mira. “It breaks my heart.” She flung herself into his arms, and he kissed her fiercely.
A stern governess walking two young ladies stared at them in horror and tried to cover her charges’ eyes with her hands all at one time.
“Do not look,” she admonished them. “It’s that dreadful debutante! Such a bad example!”
