by M C Beaton
As the sound of the first carriage wheels was heard in the distance, Miss Jean Lindsay fell sound asleep.
Both participants arrived at the same time. The marquess and his seconds had had to creep quietly from the manor so as not to wake the magistrate and his wife. Sir Giles would have taken a dim view of the proceedings. The opposing parties stood at either end of the field in the glory of a summer’s morning and waited for the surgeon to arrive. A lark burst from the grass and soared up to the heavens, its clear song sounding worlds away in space and time from the petty quarrels of men.
At last, they saw a sedan approaching at a leisurely pace being carried by two superannuated chairmen. The elderly surgeon tottered forth as the sedan was set down, slightly the worse for liquor.
“Is that all you could get?” the marquess asked Freddie in disgust.
Freddie nodded. “Dueling ain’t fashionable, you know. Ain’t the eighteenth century.”
Both men shrugged off their jackets and drew off their boots. Freddie and Harry, together with Jack Cartwright’s seconds, examined the rapiers and prayed that neither combatant would get seriously wounded and demand the services of the tipsy surgeon.
The marquess and Jack Cartwright took up their positions and then plunged into battle with more finesse than ardor. Both were first-class swordsmen and both did not consider the lady they were fighting over worth the battle now that the clear light of dawn had cooled their tempers.
Jack Cartwright had long been ashamed of his mother’s mode of dress and only hoped that this duel would be the means of sobering it. Each realized quickly that their swordsmanship was more at stake than their lives and settled down to enjoy the contest.
The marquess parried, feinted and thrust with a will but, brilliant as he was, found himself several times hard pressed. Mr. Cartwright was small and wiry but the marquess had the advantage of a longer reach. After fifteen minutes, when both were beginning to breathe heavily and sweat freely, the marquess saw his opportunity. He feinted expertly, slid under Mr. Cartwright’s guard and pinked him neatly on the shoulder.
“Enough!” he cried, putting up his sword.
“By Jove,” exclaimed Jack Cartwright, rushing forward to seize the marquess’s hand. “Capital swordsmanship! Capital!”
“You’re a master of the art yourself, sir,” said the marquess smiling. “Please accept my humble apologies for the insult to your mother.”
“Gladly,” said Mr. Cartwright happily. “Always telling her she dresses like a tart.”
“Damn all women!” cried the marquess. “Let’s repair to the White Hart and celebrate.”
And with their arms around each other’s shoulders, the two men left the field in high good humor.
As the carriages rattled away in the distance, a herdsman, leading his cows out to pasture, spied the still figure asleep in the ditch.
“I urrent going to touch that,” he muttered to himself. “’Er might be dead. I’ll tell magistrate. ’Er looks right dead.”
After he had seen his cattle safely into the field and shut the gate, he hurried off to the Manor.
When Muggles burst into the breakfast room with the information that a young lady of Miss Lindsay’s description was lying dead in a ditch at Barnes Field, the house party started to their feet.
Sir Giles called for his horse and sped off. The young ladies shrieked with delighted dismay, Miss Taylor had hysterics for the first time in her placid, well-regulated life, and the only one to appear genuinely upset, since the gentlemen were absent, was Lady Frank. She was fond of Jean and, after fidgeting nervously for a few minutes, ran to the stables, her swollen stomach bouncing in front of her, calling for her horse. “The old tart’s probably run her through with a hat pin,” she muttered anxiously.
Sir Giles arrived on the scene first and breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief when he realized the girl was asleep and unharmed. He woke her gently, shaking her by the shoulder.
Jean jumped to her feet and looked around wildly. “Is he dead? Is he hurt?” she cried.
“Who?” asked Sir Giles.
“She’s been dreamin’, ain’t you?” said Lady Frank who had arrived on the scene and transfixed Jean with a warning glare.
“Ye-es,” stammered Jean, remembering in time that Sir Giles must not know of the duel. Her eyes ranged frantically over the meadow looking for signs of bloodshed and found none.
Sir Giles helped her up onto his horse. “What on earth were you doing there?”
Jean looked wildly at Lady Frank for help but Frank was staring between her horse’s ears into the middle distance.
“I… I couldn’t sleep,” stuttered Jean. “So I decided to go for a walk and I must just have fallen asleep.”
Sir Giles took a deep breath and gave that young lady a blistering lecture on the evils of footpads, highwaymen and even young bloods. Really, he thought to himself, he had discounted Freddie’s occasional remarks about Jean’s being not altogether in the head as pure misogyny, but it certainly seemed as if the child were slightly weird.
Jean was silent. All she could think of was, “Is he dead? Why am I always in disgrace? Is he dead?”
When they arrived at the Manor, there was the marquess waiting for them, large as life and twice as elegant, only a hectic gleam in his eye and a heavy drooping of the lids indicating that he had celebrated over-heavily and over-early.
It was quite obvious from his manner that he had surmised that Jean had gone out to watch the duel and so had not worried in the slightest. So instead of casting herself into his arms with heartfelt gratitude, she moved past him with her head averted and went into the breakfast room to enjoy her solitary meal.
Hamish and Lord Ian rode over at noon and invited themselves to lunch. Jean looked across the table and caught her uncle staring at her and hurriedly glanced away.
Why, she thought, I believe he hates me. Hates me enough to murder me!
It was the first time she had spent away from Hamish in the settled routine of a normal, happy home. Now in the charming setting, the old man seemed an evil, twisted thing, something out of the Middle Ages, something from an older, darker time of lawlessness. Instead of an irascible old fool, perpetually carping and complaining, he suddenly seemed to Jean to be something more and someone to be reckoned with. Could he be responsible for the attacks on her life? If so, why? Gold was all the old man cared about and all he might kill for, and she had none of that, her small store of guineas being already greatly depleted.
Lord Ian noticed the exchange of glances and gave Hamish a warning kick. “Jean, my dear,” said the minister, “I came over especially to have a wee chat with you. Perhaps we could retire to your rooms after lunch?”
The marquess, who was pouring madeira on the top of the champagne he had had for breakfast, frowned and put down his glass. He had better sober up if he meant to keep a guard on Jean.
As the minister and his niece entered her private sitting room on the second floor, the marquess crept to the door and placed his ear to the panel, ready to rush to the rescue at the first sign of attack.
But the minister’s “wee chat” turned out to be a long and lengthy sermon on how Jean was ill-prepared for the afterlife with all this frivolity and that she should start thinking of her immortal soul.
“Really, Uncle Hamish,” teased Jean. “Anyone would think you meant to dispatch me to Heaven as soon as possible, the way you go on.”
“Show respect! Show respect!” spluttered Hamish. “Or when we get back to Dunwearie, I’ll take the rod to your back.”
Jean winced at the memory of previous occasions when the old man had beaten her and strengthened her resolve to attach herself to the marquess’s protection any way she could.
When he heard Hamish rising to leave, the marquess darted down the stairs and into the safety of the library. Now, what was the point of all that, he wondered. He shrugged mentally. Probably pangs of Calvinistic conscience.
He watched until he saw the
minister ride off with Lord Ian and went in search of Jean.
“We have both had an exciting morning, Miss Lindsay,” he said. “Perhaps you would care to walk with me in the conservatory?”
“Gladly,” said Jean, taking his arm. “I had better wake Miss Taylor from her nap and tell her.”
“Let her sleep,” said the marquess. “You do not need a chaperone. Lady Carol is awake and about somewhere. You are not afraid to be alone with me?”
“No-o,” said Jean, eyeing him doubtfully. He was as impeccable as ever in a coat of blue superfine, striped waistcoat and tight-fitting buckskins. His Hessians shone like glass; his cravat was spotless. But Miss Lindsay could not help but feel that there was a decidedly raffish air about him.
She took his arm and they walked sedately down the stairs and through the silent, summer rooms to the conservatory. Everyone else seemed to be abed for an afternoon nap, thought Jean, except for herself and the marquess.
The marquess ushered Jean into the conservatory and slammed the door behind them, leaning his broad shoulders against it.
“What a Jot of plants,” said Jean nervously.
“Yes, there are, aren’t there. Come here to me.”
“What!” said Jean, starting, and taking several steps away from him.
“I said, ‘Come here,’” said the marquess with a wicked gleam in his eye. “You said you wanted to know how Fallen Women go on and I, my dear Miss Lindsay, am about to instruct you.”
Jean eyed him dubiously. It was one thing to dream about being a Fallen Woman, another to take the necessary step.
“Couldn’t we leave it till later. We both have had an exhausting day,” said Jean timidly.
“Not as exhausting as we’re about to have, I hope,” said the marquess taking an unsteady step toward her. He was feeling the enervating effects of having fought a duel, not to mention the effects of a mixture of madeira and champagne, and, in some obscure way, he felt he deserved a reward.
Jean took two steps toward him and stood with her hands at her sides and her eyes screwed shut. Courage! she admonished herself. It’s now or never.
“Come now. You are not about to have a tooth extracted,” said the marquess, taking her hand and leading her over to a marble bench.
He drew Jean onto his lap and started to kiss her ruthlessly, his hands caressing her slim body and his senses reeling with passion and alcohol. How far they would have gone, they never would know, for with a crash the door swung open and Lady Frank stood on the threshold, her eyes like pieces of ice.
“To your room, Miss Lindsay,” she snapped. “Fleetwater! A word with you.”
She stood aside as Jean hurried past her with her head bowed. Then she turned to the marquess.
“Since no one else seems to have an eye to that gel’s future or morals, it had better be me,” said Frank. “Although we’re at the Mannerings, she’s still my guest, you know. So just what are your intentions, Fleetwater?”
The marquess, his thin face flushed, rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet. “Well, look now, Frank, I mean to marry the girl. If only she would learn how to comport herself properly.”
“Well, she ain’t goin’ to learn it from you by the looks of things,” said Frank roundly. “You know what I think?”
“I don’t and I would rather not,” said the marquess pettishly, getting up to leave.
“I think,” pursued Frank regardless, “that if her bloodline weren’t as good as it is, you’d seduce her. You feel then you must marry her but what holds you back is you’re ashamed of her!
“So hark on, Fleetwater, she may tumble into more scrapes than most young girls but that’s because of her awful upbringing with that dismal old miser. There’s nothin’ up with that gel that a secure home and a bit of genuine love wouldn’t cure. I said ‘love,’ mind you. Not a tumble in the hay.
“Fact is, Fleetwater, you’re a demned snob and always have been. Likable chap but spoiled rotten with all these toadies you’ve been consortin’ with. Should have heard yourself the other day at the White Hart. ‘My name is Fleetwater and I do not duel with yokels.’ Faugh!
“So while Jean Lindsay is my guest, you will observe the proprieties at all times until you get to the altar.”
With that, Lady Frank departed, leaving the marquess to curse the plants and tell that uninterested audience what a cursed lot of complicated, devilish puzzles women were.
But Lady Frank’s barbs had struck home. He felt like an utter fool. With a groan, he headed to his bedchamber to put his uneasy conscience to sleep.
Meanwhile, Jean walked in the gardens, prey to a jumble of emotions. She was glad Lady Frank appeared when she did. Or was she? Things had been getting quite exciting and interesting before she was interrupted. What I need is a mother, thought Jean sadly. Someone to prompt the marquess to propose. Not a horrible, old uncle who would probably rejoice in her downfall.
Unaware that ten miles distant her uncle was plotting her death, she returned to the house.
Hamish was busy sketching out a plan of Jean’s rooms for Lord Ian. “They mean to stay another two days. Let’s make it for, say, tomorrow night.”
“Done,” said Lord Ian. “There is a play being performed in Barminster. We’ll show ourselves there to establish an alibi for part of the evening at least.”
“There is a wrought iron balcony at her window which is on the second floor,” said Hamish. “It should be an easy matter to climb up.”
“I am not one of those muscle-bound Corinthians like Fleetwater,” pointed out Lord Ian languidly.
“Aye,” agreed Hamish sourly. “And you’d better find yourself a suitable pair of breeches instead of these canary yellow Inexpressibles you’ve got on.
“Speed is of the essence,” the old man went on. “We will return late from the theater to the Manor, pretending to have drunk too much wine….”
“Make sure you are pretending, for once,” interrupted Lord Ian with a sneer.
“As I was trying to say… we’ll look as if we are in our cups and send all the servants off to bed. That will give us a bit more of an alibi. Even if Fleetwater suspects anything, he will have no proof.”
At that moment, the Marquess of Fleetwater had awakened from his afternoon nap and was lying, staring sightlessly at the canopy of his four-poster. Frank was wrong, he decided. He was not a snob. Certainly, it was wrong of him to try to go so far with the girl but that was not because of her lack of social standing. After all, thought the marquess, he was an easygoing fellow. But Frank could not expect him to go around hobnobbing with every yokel he came across. However, the barb still rankled. He decided to try it out on Freddie.
Accordingly, when the ladies had retired after dinner and he was left with Sir Giles, Freddie and Mr. Harry Fairchild, the marquess put down his glass, and fixing Freddie with an intense gaze, said, “Freddie, I’d like to tell you something.”
“Go on, old man,” said Freddie good-naturedly.
The marquess took a deep breath. “Freddie, you’re a snob.”
“I know,” said Freddie, calmly refilling his glass.
“And doesn’t it bother you?”
“Demme, why should it?” asked Freddie practically. “We all are, dear boy. It’s the way of the world. Why do all us old bachelors trot up for the Season? ‘Cos we belong to the elite—the gilded few, an’ what, by the deuce, is the demned point of belongin’ to the gilded few if we can’t rub some upstart’s face in it, heh?”
“I’m beginning to find the whole charade of the London Season pointless and hollow,” said the marquess, drooping his heavy eyelids in a world-weary manner.
“’Course you do!” said Freddie happily. “Get that way m’self when m’liver’s on the turn. So back to the jolly old estates where everyone scrapes and bows even more and the yokels tug their forelocks. An’ we say to ourselves, ‘What ho! The simple life of the country and all that rot.’
“Fact is, dear boy, we’re stuck with it. ‘Cos the
world is full of snobs an’ if you so much as try to be equal with everybody, ’fore you know it, your house is packed with demned upstarts and Cits and shopkeepers from the cellars to the attics, all fawnin’ like mad. So where are you?”
“Halfway down the decanter,” said the marquess gloomily.
Sir Giles coughed. “If you won’t object to the advice of an older man, I think you will find you are doing your duty if you are a good landlord. And a gentleman is never patronizing, you know.”
“In that case,” said Freddie blithely, “there ain’t a lot of gentlemen around. Stop hoggin’ the decanter, Fleetwater.”
Mr. Fairchild delivered himself of a few choked mumbles.
“Harry says you’re beginnin’ to sound like a Frenchie. Cheer up, Harry, it’s just the ladies gettin’ John down. He ain’t goin’ to march you to the lantern yet.”
Meanwhile, the air in the drawing room was electric. Lady Mary announced that she and Mr. Fairchild had “an understanding” and that the happy couple were traveling to London in the morning to obtain the Duchess of Glenrandall’s consent to the marriage. Bess was quite frankly in the sulks and blamed her spinsterish state on the visit to the Blackstones and on Jean in particular. Lady Sally had an uneasy feeling that the marquess was slipping from her grasp and Jean was no longer sure of her feelings in that quarter.
At times—especially times like the one in the conservatory—she felt like throwing away a lifetime’s Calvinistic training and becoming his mistress. At others, she resented the feelings of jealousy, rage and unhappiness he arose in her and longed to escape and start all over again.
If only she were rich, then she could take her sorrows abroad. She would sit in some elegant piazza, sipping her wine, aware of the speculative glances and comments from the Cosmopolitan set. “Egad, who is that beautiful woman who is always alone? Methinks she nurses some dark, secret sorrow,” some devastatingly handsome man would mutter as he came to sit beside her and try to woo her troubles away. The handsome man would have hair as dark as night and sapphire blue eyes. No—he would have chestnut hair and laughing brown eyes… he would have cold, gray eyes and blond hair, Jean decided wearily, wondering if she would ever banish the marquess from her thoughts.
