The Wicked Guardian

by Vanessa Gray

  There was time enough during Miss Peek’s representations for Clare to lose the peak of her anger. She was still rebellious, but reason came in to lay its cold hand in hers. “I do know,” she said at last with a huge sigh. “Between you and Grandmama I have been brought up to know what is proper. But why is it, Peeky, that everything I want to do is ineligible, and everything that is proper is so utterly repressive!”

  “My dear, you would not wish to be disrespectful to your grandmother’s memory,” suggested Miss Peek.

  “Of course, I wouldn’t And I do not chafe against the year of mourning, even though it must seem so to you. No, what I cannot like is that odious man telling me what to do in that very contemptuous way!”

  “My dear, I hadn’t noticed anything other than his very polished manners.”

  “So, you have fallen under his spell!” railed Clare, but Miss Peek’s acute ear could detect that soon Clare would be more amenable, and she could then tell her a few things that, while unpalatable, could be most helpful to her.

  “I wish that he would go off and marry his Marianna,” scolded Clare, “and both of them leave me alone!”

  Miss Peek was startled. There seemed more heat in the complaint than was justified. But oddly, Miss Peek was abruptly reminded of an episode in her own youth—one that she had not thought of for years. There had been a young curate whose attentions had become marked, and her father disliked him intensely. Just so had Miss Peek railed against her fate. The memory cast a brilliant light upon her dear Clare, an enlightenment which did nothing to cheer her. Clare was destined to have a very bad year, she feared.

  In a hasty attempt to apply oil to troubled waters, Miss Peek blundered. “Perhaps Lord Choate will arrange for you to come out in London again next year. Probably the Little Season would be most appropriate. You will have the summer to prepare your wardrobe, and then what a fine swath you will cut!”

  “And come out” said Clare, dangerously gentle, “under the wing of Marianna Morton? I shall not do it!”

  “But that would not serve!” cried Miss Peek. Then, reflecting, she understood Clare’s remark. “You mean, Miss Morton will be Lady Choate by that time. But, my dear ...” She thought better of her remarks and concluded lamely, “Time enough for that next summer. But whatever happens, my dear, you must remember that Lord Choate is a man of great honor and integrity, and he will do nothing to damage your prospects.”

  “My prospects!” repeated Clare darkly. “I wish I may know what they are.”

  Miss Peek, realizing that she could say nothing that Clare would heed, turned the conversation into other channels, where it limped along, prodded by Miss Peek, ignored for the most part by Clare.

  That night Clare turned over every word that Benedict had spoken to her, much as an intent scientist turns over a stone, marveling at the revelations beneath.

  Benedict had, she determined, two main streams of thought that he followed. One was to immure her at Penryck Abbey, like a gothic heroine, with a dragon of a chaperon whose repressive ways would kill her own spirit. And the second was to get her off his hands as quickly as possible. The second was, of course, responsible for the first. But there had been hints dropped by Lady Melvin, by Miss Peek, and even by Lady Thane, to the effect that Benedict would take the earliest opportunity to marry her off. True, they had not said so in so many words, but they certainly expected that he would arrange a marriage for her, and then all would be solved!

  Not likely! thought Clare.

  But until she was married, or until she reached the age of twenty-five, she would be a millstone around Choate’s neck.

  There was quite simply no place to turn. She had escaped from Penryck Abbey with the muddled idea of forcing Choate to take notice of her. He had, and she was learning just how formidable an opponent he was. All the advantage was his. There was nothing she could do, no one to turn to, no place to go. Benedict Choate had, very cleverly, stopped all the bolting-holes.

  To top it all, he was importing a perfect stranger to watch his prey to see that she did not escape.

  She would, quite simply, give anything in the world to escape the position that Benedict had placed her in. However, she was devoid of helpful ideas.

  The sleepless night she spent added nothing to her acuteness of mind. She woke up lethargic after the doze she fell into toward dawn, and her head throbbed. Perhaps I am falling ill, she thought hopefully, regarding her tongue in the mirror. She could see no sign of illness, and she took her continued good health as another sign of doom.

  That afternoon—Thursday, one more day on the way to the dreaded Saturday—callers were announced by the housekeeper, Mrs. Bishop. When Clare entered the maroon salon, she stopped inside the door in amazement. The two women standing in the center of the room were known to her, but she had certainly not expected Miss Marianna Morton and Mrs. Morton to call on her.

  “G-good afternoon,” said Clare, suddenly overcome by shyness. She felt unusually dowdy, in the face of Miss Morton’s fawn pelisse, buttoned from throat to hem, and topped by lavish furs. “I am sorry that Lady Thane is away, for I know you wish to see her.”

  “No,” said Miss Morton crisply. “I—that is, we—came to see you. But I wonder whether we might not sit down? Or perhaps you do not trust the furniture? I am quite aware that sometimes rented rooms are not as we should hope them to be.”

  “Marianna, my dear,” said her mother, “I am sure Lady Thane’s arrangements are not to be questioned. My dear child,” she added, advancing upon Clare with outstretched hand, “how glad I am to see you. And how sorry I was to hear of your grandmother’s death. But then, she was quite ill, I believe?”

  “Oh yes, she was, for many years,” said Clare. “But pray be seated. I shall ring for tea, or perhaps you would prefer coffee?”

  “Nothing,” said Mrs. Morton, “thank you. We are engaged at the Assembly Rooms in a half-hour, so we must deny ourselves the pleasure.”

  Miss Morton had been fidgeting with her gloves, an unusual gesture for a lady who was considered the first stare of elegance. Her mother glanced speculatively at her. She had not wanted to come, first to Bath in the wake of Lord Choate, and then, more especially, to the house that Lady Thane had taken. But Marianna was as determined in her own way as her father had been, and Mrs. Morton had long given over any hope of abating her daughter’s headstrong ways.

  She longed for Marianna’s marriage quite as much as her daughter did, for it represented to her an unaccustomed access of freedom from a nagging supervision, but she recognized her duty, and accompanied Marianna this far.

  But now Marianna was exhibiting a frenetic nervousness that her mother did not like. Mrs. Morton sat silently in the satin-striped chair where she could watch the two young ladies.

  “Well,” began Marianna, “I half-expected to find you not receiving company.”

  “Oh, not at all,” said Clare doggedly. “I must always be at home to you, Miss Morton. And Mrs. Morton, of course. I am sure my guardian would wish it.”

  “The story is current in London that a certain man of low reputation—I am sure you will know to whom I refer—has been taking up much of your time.”

  A dull flush crept slowly upward from Clare’s throat into her cheeks. Miss Morton said, “I see that you understand my reference.”

  “I assure you,” said Clare stoutly, “that Lady Thane was always present whenever I received anyone.” Clare knew very well that Harry Rowse was the subject of Miss Morton’s conversation, but she was conscious of a growing detestation of Benedict’s fiancée, and since Benedict had already brought her to the lowest point of her existence, she was not quite willing to submit equally to Miss Morton. She was too young, they said? Very well, she would be too young!

  “I must tell you,” she added innocently, “that my guardian has given permission for me to receive in Lady Thane’s absence. For you must know that she has been called away. A sad occasion, I fear.”

  “Her daughter?” sug
gested Mrs. Morton.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. The grandson too, I believe. Dear Harriet was sadly upset when she wrote, and Lady Thane left at once. I have not heard how the patients are faring.”

  Marianna fumed, “I cannot believe that Benedict was so lost to his duty!”

  “You doubt my word?” said Clare with just the right touch of submission. “But I am sure Lord Choate will confirm it, if you really need to be assured of his care of me.”

  “Now, Marianna,” interrupted Mrs. Morton. “I am sure, my dear, that Marianna means no reflection upon your honesty.”

  Clare said nothing. She was beginning to understand that Marianna loathed her quite as much as Clare disliked her.

  “I cannot believe,” said Marianna, reluctant to cease worrying the subject, “that Benedict would admit Harry Rowse to your company! Especially after what happened at Carlton House!”

  “I wonder,” said Clare, “how it is that you are informed as to what happened at Carlton House?”

  Marianna looked startled, and then had the grace to bite her lip in chagrin. “Of course Benedict told me. He also told me why he had to come down to Bath. To take care of his ward, he said. But I understand that he feared Rowse’s advances to you.”

  Mrs. Morton took a hand. “Marianna, I am sure Choate did not say anything like that.”

  Marianna turned on her mother. “But you do not know what transpired when Choate and I were alone.”

  Mrs. Morton said bluntly, “You were not alone. You received a note from him saying he must hasten out of town.”

  Clare’s perception was quick. So Marianna and her mother were at odds! Also, she understood that Marianna’s curiosity was overweening, urging her to follow Benedict to Bath to check up on his activity. And, too, she knew that Marianna would simply die rather than confess it.

  “But then, are you to take the baths?” said Clare innocently. “For you must know that Lord Choate does not plan to stay in Bath above a few days.”

  “Benedict told me,” said Marianna repressively, “in his note, that he wished me to come to Bath. After all, I am his fiancée, you know, and he has the utmost confidence in my discretion.”

  “Betrothed, but not wed,” said Clare, suddenly allowing her resentment full sway. “And since he can count upon your discretion, how is it that I overheard you spreading his remarks far and wide? And that, too, at Carlton House.”

  “Marianna, you didn’t!”

  Marianna looked discomfited, but recovered rapidly. “An eavesdropper! Now I have heard everything. No wonder that Choate is so anxious to get you off his hands!”

  Mrs. Morton sat in a state of shock. Her daughter was exhibiting some unpleasant traits that reminded her forcefully of the late Mr. Morton, and doubts began to stir in her as to the wisdom of allowing Choate to hear any of this. If word got to him of Marianna’s excessive ill temper and manifest indiscretion, he might cry off.

  And then, she began to remember, Marianna had already set the date twice, and Choate had deferred what he called, without obvious emotion, “the happy occasion.” And while Mrs. Morton would not advocate a marriage solely for material benefit, yet forty thousand a year was not lightly to be cast aside. By the time Mrs. Morton had decided to make some strong representations to her daughter, in private, on the subject of curbing her tongue and her temper, the conversation had advanced a step. Clare was now appearing beleaguered, and Mrs. Morton decided to put an end to this futile exercise.

  “It is your fault,” pursued Marianna, “that Choate has postponed our wedding.”

  “My fault!” A strange light leaped in Clare’s eyes.

  “He must deal with your paltry affairs,” seethed Marianna, “and put aside our affairs until you are settled. And I warn you, Miss Penryck, that I shall not abide the outcome of this. I intend to marry Lord Choate, and I intend to set a date before Christmas, and, believe me, he will not postpone the marriage again.”

  Clare looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. There seemed to be nothing to say. She held her breath, letting the words flood over her.

  “I shall see to that,” Marianna continued. “I have a cousin who would be most eligible for you. We scarcely see him. In fact, I have not seen him for a twelvemonth, so you see he would be just the thing. For I shall not allow Benedict to be belabored by you, harassed until he doesn’t know what is best for him.”

  “Marianna, don’t meddle,” warned her mother.

  It was then that Marianna, full of her own resentments, left the truth to fend for itself. Mendaciously she informed Clare, “I hadn’t wanted to tell you, for I thought you might resent my knowing so much of Benedict’s plans for you, but I have already broached the subject to him, and he agrees. The arrangements are already in train, you know, and Benedict assures me that the moment your year of mourning is over, your betrothal will be announced. And we’ll not have you on our hands anymore.”

  She glared at Clare in triumph. Mrs. Morton was appalled, but not so much so that she did not see the spark of emotion that welled up in Clare’s eyes as she looked up at Marianna. She was struck, at that moment, by a most unexpected idea. She was stirred to protest, believing rightly that Marianna , was lying, but the look in Clare’s eyes—the look of complete abject misery—was too strong for Mrs. Morton to do aught but gasp inwardly in compassion.

  Her own breeding, unlike her daughter’s, was impeccable though, and now was the time to put an end to this impossible situation. She rose to her feet and shepherded her daughter to the door, brooking no delay, and saying quite proper and meaningless things to Clare.

  Her last look, as she closed the door to the maroon salon behind them, was of Clare sitting where she had been, her face buried in her hands, and her shoulders shaking as though racked with sobs.

  “Well, Marianna,” said Mrs. Morton astringently, “now you’ve outdone yourself.”

  24.

  Clare believed she had touched the very bottom of existence—Mrs. Duff on her way, jingling jailer’s keys, so to speak, heralding ten months of close confinement at Penryck Abbey.

  Clare was full of self-incrimination. Why hadn’t she let well enough alone? Her thoughts boiled as they accused her of all her sins. Why had she decided to loosen the ceiling plaster? If she had not, Benedict would not have thought she was incorrigible. Besides, Clare had mischievously pretended to encourage Harry Rowse. And that had brought disaster upon her. Not only was she to return to the abbey, but she also now had a marriage to look forward to.

  Her own marriage was even now being arranged, without even consulting her, to a cousin of Marianna Morton’s! She could not have expected much else, she decided, remembering how Benedict had always overridden her wishes, even if he had done her the courtesy of asking what they were.

  But to hear it from Marianna! That was debasing! Why hadn’t Benedict told her himself? Surely she would have taken it better from his own lips. But perhaps he did not dare to face her with it?

  That was wrong. Benedict would face anything, and even take pleasure in inflicting hurt upon her. She was now past reasoning, and let instinct take over. But instinct played her false, because no slightest doubt crossed her mind that Miss Morton had lied, for reasons of her own.

  The only reason Benedict had not told her about his plans to arrange a marriage for her was that her wishes, her thoughts, her likes were of no possible concern to him.

  She was a duty, an onerous, troublesome millstone around his neck, and, being a direct man, he was taking the earliest possible steps to rid himself of her care.

  He could not even wait for a seemly time to elapse after her mourning. There were eight years yet to go before she would be free of her wicked guardian. For seven of them, if he had his way, she would be wed to a man she did not know, and Benedict’s guardianship would be early terminated.

  Her sobs at length subsided. She sat a long time, devoid of thought, not moving. She had not yet turned the corner to look into the future. There would be nothing th
ere, she knew, and what was the use!

  But at the bottom, there was no place to go, and one cannot live in the limbo of desperation forever. When Mrs. Bishop came in to light the candles, she roused from her lethargy.

  "Come, now, miss, sitting here in the dark like this! I don’t know what Dawson was thinking of to let the curtains go like this, with the fog drawing in, and the mist so dark and all!”

  Clare roused herself and was forced to look outside following Mrs. Bishop’s bustling figure as she pulled all the draperies closed. “It’s only three o’clock!” she marveled, thinking that at least the time must have gone on into the next week. “And already dark?”

  “It’s the mist rising from the river, miss,” explained Mrs. Bishop. “The rain will set in by nightfall, you mark my words.”

  It was just the weather for Clare’s mood, she decided. She longed to go for a walk, but of course she could not without Lady Melvin with her. She moved to the window and drew the curtains apart, to gaze out upon Laura Place.

  The traffic was almost nonexistent. Probably the weather had reduced all the ailing to huddling by the fireside. The cobbles glistened in the fine mist. But there was one pedestrian along the street, a woman, and as she drew near, looking up at the buildings to mark her way, Clare recognized her. With a gasp, she breathed, “Mrs. Morton! Whatever can she want now?”

  She hoped that Mrs. Morton had thought of a call to make elsewhere in the street, and she dropped the curtains so as not to be recognized. But in a moment, Marianna’s mother was ushered into the maroon salon.

  Mrs. Morton crossed the room, holding out both hands to Clare. “My dear,” she said kindly, “I could not reconcile my conscience at leaving you so downcast an hour ago. I have come to talk to you, my dear, knowing that you have no mother to comfort you and Lady Thane, alas, is out of the city.”