by M C Beaton
The marquess sighed, allowed his valet to help him into his evening coat, and stuck a large ruby pin in his cravat.
“My lord!” gasped the valet.
“Eh. What’s up man?”
“We have a ruby in our cravat—a large ruby—and we are wearing our sapphire ring.”
“Demme, you’re right,” said the marquess. “Too vulgar by half.”
His long fingers rummaged through his jewel box and came up with a small sapphire pin to match his ring. What on earth had come over him these days? He twisted and turned like a girl in front of the mirror to make sure he was guiltless of further fashionable lapse.
Walking over to the fireplace, he picked up a gold-embossed invitation and gave another heavy sigh. A ball at the Courtlands. Why! He hadn’t been to their house since the beginning of the Season when he had walked in and seen the lonely figure of… His mind refused to continue, clamping down rigidly on the subject like a steel trap.
The rooms were not so crowded as they had been during the main season and the marquess’s lackluster eyes took in the full beauty of Lady Sally as she dimpled at him across the ballroom and came forward to take his arm possessively. The marquess listened with half an ear to her chatter and suddenly noticed Lady Frank across the room. She had obviously “dropped” her baby, because her figure was once again returned to its narrow, muscular proportions. He gave her a friendly bow but received only the coldest of nods in return.
He led Lady Sally toward the double doors of the card room where there were several young bloods standing at the entrance, hoping to unload her onto one of her other admirers.
Lady Frank was also standing at the card room door and, for reasons he did not wish to fathom, he had a sudden urge to speak to her, despite her chilly looks.
“Lady Frank! You are indeed in looks. I believe you have been blessed with a daughter,” bowed the marquess, turning the full battery of his charm on the unresponsive Frank.
Lady Frank studied the wine in her glass thoughtfully and, for one awful minute, the marquess thought she was going to give him the cut direct.
Then she said slowly. “Yes. She’s a lovely spirited little thing. Goin’ to call her… Jean.”
The marquess’s thin face flushed as if he had been struck. Lady Frank’s voice had carried into the card room to the ears of a group of drunken young bloods. One was so far gone in his cups that he forgot his surroundings and raised his voice in a tipsy yell.
“Heard m’latest poem ’bout Jean Lindsay? Sing it for you. Thass what I’ll do.”
His voice carried in mocking song.
“It’s a bit of a stop
To be called an old fop
But a lot, lot more
To leave the dance floor
Designated a whore.”
Majestically, Lady Frank swept into the card room and flung the contents of her glass, full into the young man’s face.
“What you starin’ at, puddin’ face,” she snarled at the marquess. “Probably wrote the song yourself.”
She swept off, leaving the marquess, for once, speechless. A touch on his arm made him turn and he found Lady Bess flashing her china blue eyes up at him.
“Poor Miss Lindsay,” she sighed in mock sympathy. “No person of the ton will ever dare to be seen talking to her again.”
Suddenly in front of her vacuous face there seemed to the marquess’s eyes to be superimposed another… a small, piquant face with wide green eyes and topped with a flaming head of hair.
“I can assure you,” he said in a brisk loud voice, not at all like his customary drawl, “I for one would be very glad to see Miss Lindsay again. I found her a charming, amusing and intelligent girl,” and leaving Lady Bess with her mouth hanging open, he followed in the wake of Lady Frank.
He stood irresolute in the street outside the Courtlands’ mansion as he watched Lady Frank’s carriage disappearing around a bend in the road.
The snow was beginning to blanket London with thorough democracy, falling on the elegant houses of the West End and the stews of Seven Dials alike.
The snow was beginning to seep through his thin evening slippers and he came to a sudden decision. Admit it, he said to himself, you’re demned bored. Life will never be the same without that chit. He would go to Lady Frank and beg her to give him Jean’s address. Of course, the girl’s godmother would know, but Lady Frank was better placed to know how Jean felt about… well… about things.
He hailed a passing hack and gave him an address in South Audley Street.
The marquess was fortunate in that Lady Frank was eccentric enough to turn away unwanted guests instead of leaving that service to the butler.
Accordingly, she emerged into the hallway, looked at the marquess, remarked flatly, “Get out,” and retreated back into the drawing room.
The marquess found himself with a case of metaphorical and physical cold feet. His sodden evening slippers made a small pool of water on the tiles of the hallway and he felt at that moment that he would rather face a regiment of the Lancers than Lady Frank in a bad mood. Summoning up his courage and deciding to be just as eccentric, he walked into the drawing room and slammed the door behind him.
Frank was fortunately alone, sitting in front of the fire, and did not look up as he came in.
The marquess hesitated and bravely walked forward. “Frank, I really must speak to you about Jean Lindsay.”
Without turning around, Frank said to the blazing coal fire, “Oh, for God’s sake, leave the girl alone. You nearly sent her out of her wits with your damned philandering.”
“Frank, I assure you, I am most concerned about Miss Lindsay despite her strange behavior to me at Brighton. I…”
He turned with a muttered oath as the door opened and Freddie sailed in.
“Hullo, John. Thought you was squirin’ Sally at the Courtlands.”
“He’s sniffin’ around Jean Lindsay again,” snorted Frank.
“Really, Frank!” said the marquess acidly. “I realize you are angry with me but spare me the language of the stables.”
At this, Frank straightened up and turned around, giving the marquess the full benefit of a pair of very contemptuous blue eyes. “Why should I show you any pretty manners, Fleetwater? The girl finds Lord Ian’s body floatin’ around and gets the shock of her life, and just when she’s tryin’ to forget it, you start prattlin’ on about what a fine dinner he’d make for fish or some such fustian.”
“What! She didn’t tell us that!” exclaimed both the marquess and Lord Freddie in chorus.
“Don’t see as how either of you gave her the chance. Let the poor thing leave Brighton in disgrace without so much as a friendly good-bye. ’Course I wasn’t surprised at you, Fleetwater. I’ve always said you were a spoiled brat But my own brother…”
Freddie wriggled uncomfortably. He had felt for a long time that he had behaved badly and had been haunted by the memory of Jean’s pathetic white face at the coach window.
“Frank, I honestly didn’t know about her finding Fleetwater’s body,” pleaded the marquess. “I simply thought she had taken leave of her senses.”
“Oh, well That does throw a different light on things,” said Frank gruffly, much mollified. “Well, what do you want to do?”
The marquess felt like a schoolboy. He cleared his throat. “I thought if you could supply me with her address in Scotland, I could travel there and well…”
“Marriage, I trust?”
“Of course,” said the marquess coldly.
“There’s no need to put on your high and mighty airs with me, Fleetwater. It’s a bit hard for me to take in at this time of night—the fact that Society’s best-known rake is considering gettin’ leg-shackled. Oh, well… I’ll give you her direction. She’s at her uncle’s house in Edinburgh—not Hamish, the nabob.”
The marquess laughed. “Miss Lindsay certainly has been used to Eastern trophies. Remember that terrible house in Brighton. All those stuffed heads and—oh, my
God—that elephant and those bud…”
He broke off as he realized that both brother and sister were regarding him frostily. “There was nothin’ up that place,” said Freddie. “Snuggest house in all Brighton.”
The marquess got to his feet and bowed. He had better leave before he offended his valuable source of information further. “I shall set out tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” shrieked Freddie. “You won’t get as far as Islington. Look out of the window. You won’t get up those roads to the North before spring.”
He tugged the heavy curtains aside and revealed a world of white in the lamplight shining from the room.
“In fact you won’t even get home tonight,” said Freddie. “We’ll put you up.”
Acknowledging defeat, the marquess sank into an armchair and stared at the fire. What if she were married already? What if she had thrown herself away on some great Highland oaf? What a fool he had been to leave it all so long.
Lady Frank watched him covertly from the other chair and hoped fervently that she had done the right thing. But Jean had seemed to be so much in love with him. The marquess was undoubtedly a very good-looking man. She studied the still, white aristocratic face with the heavy-hooded lids masking the eyes and wondered what he was thinking.
Many pictures were flitting through the marquess’s head… how she had looked when he had kissed her, the feel of her lips beneath his, the feel of her slim body. A violent flame of passion threatened to consume him and he stared into the tumbling castles the coals made in the fire and felt physically sick.
He voiced his main worry. “What if she is married, Frank?”
Lady Frank blinked at the naked pain revealed in the gray eyes and all her strong maternal instincts were aroused.
“I’m sure she would have written to me, John, and told me about it. She talks about a lot of beaus in her letters but she ain’t mentioned anyone in particular. ’Course the mails are slow this weather,” she added doubtfully. “Anyway, I can’t see Jean gettin’ herself married without wantin’ me to be at the weddin’.”
The marquess sighed. If only his pride had not been allowed to rule his heart, she could be sitting next to him now and the snow could fall all over the world forever for all he cared. His mind returned to nibbling away at the main problem: was she in love, was she married?
Several hundred miles away, his beloved’s mind was running along much the same lines. Miss Jean Lindsay was also staring into the fire as the snow fell heavily outside and the wind screamed in the chimney. Was he married to Lady Sally? Or had he fallen in love with some completely different beauty who was now dazzling the London scene?
“Miss Lindsay,” her lawyer admonished her. “You should pay attention. Young Lord Dalkelp is about to propose a counter argument to Mr. David Hume’s views on skepticism.”
Jean smiled her apologies and turned her attention back to the drawing room.
She had carefully made up the guest list for her supper party, inviting mostly young people, in the hope of a frivolous evening. Alas, it seemed to be following the usual pattern.
Clutching his lapel, Lord Dalkelp began, “In his Essays Concerning Human Understanding, Mr. David Hume says thus, ‘There is a species of skepticism, antecedent to all study and philosophy, which is much inculcated by Descartes and others, as a sovereign preservative against error and precipitate judgment. It recommends a universal doubt…’”
Doubt! Jean turned her attention back to the fire. If only she could be sure. Perhaps it would be better not to know and still be able to dream of seeing him again. Damn Sally and double-damn Bess!
There must be somewhere where she would feel at home. She had to admit she missed the frivolous London life and found these Scottish forays into tomes of philosophy very boring, although she was modest enough to put it down to the inadequacies of her brain.
Faith! She was becoming as much of a snob as the marquess, pining for the elegancies of life. She thought suddenly of how they had laughed together that enchanted evening at the Ship at Freddie’s silly jokes and a smile curved her lips.
To her horror, she heard the speaker addressing her.
“Ah, you smile, Miss Lindsay. Obviously you are a skeptic yourself. Do you agree with my views on the Cartesian doubt?”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Miss Lindsay mendaciously.
But this was not London. “Really! In what way?” asked the infuriating Lord Dalkelp.
Jean racked her brains. “I would prefer to withhold my opinion until I have heard the end of your discourse, my lord.”
Obviously she had said the right thing, for the young lord beamed and continued his speech.
After the guests had left and Jean had neatly avoided a philosophical discussion with the speaker, James Colqhoun remained behind to share the tea tray, as was his custom, with Jean and Miss Taylor.
“Have you considered visiting the manse at Dunwearie?” he asked. “You will no doubt wish to keep some mementoes and arrange the future of your housekeeper.”
Jean was conscience-stricken. “Oh, poor Agnes. I had forgotten all about her!”
Mr. Colqhoun said, “I took the liberty of continuing her wages until I discovered what your plans were for her future. Of course the Duke of Glenrandall will naturally want to find an incumbent for the living, so I am sure her future is secure in any case.”
“I would rather have her here with me,” said Jean firmly. “I will leave for Dunwearie as soon as possible.”
“You will need to wait for the spring at least before you can travel,” said Mr. Colqhoun, unconsciously echoing Freddie.
After he had left, Jean sat staring at the fire. Yes, she would go back to Dunwearie—back to where it had all started and there perhaps she could find her identity, for she was still plagued by a nagging feeling of homelessness.
It was an exceptionally long, hard winter, icy, bitter and snow-laden. The trees in the park outside stretched their skeletal arms to the sky and showed no signs of ever sprouting a leaf again.
March came and went and still Jean found it impossible to move as savage gales swept the country and slashing rains turned the roads to rivers of mud and made travel impossible.
Gradually, the showers of April gave way to heavy, mist-laden mornings and clear tranquil afternoons as the medieval city lay spread out under a sky of pure cerulean. Jean felt as if her youth had been given back to her.
Her laughter began to echo around the house in Charlotte Square and she passed her days getting ready for the journey to Dunwearie, her head filled with rosy dreams. As each day passed and brought no news of the marquess’s marriage to Lady Sally, she began to hope again. Surely he could not have forgotten her!
On the first of May when the lilac trees were beginning to droop with their heavy weight of blossom and the hawthorn trees bloomed pink and white by the hedgerows, Jean and her entourage took to the road again.
As the heavy coach rolled around the corner of the square and disappeared, the post boy handed the housekeeper, Mrs. Abernethy, the morning mail.
On the top of the pile was a heavy, important-looking letter with a large, impressive seal.
Mrs. Abernethy stared down at the Marquess of Fleetwater’s crest and debated whether she should send a boy after the carriage.
Then coming to a decision, she took the letter into the study and placed it on the desk. Mistress Jean will be back soon enough, she said to herself. ’Tis probably nothing important.
And the letter containing the marquess’s tender avowal of passion and love which had cost that young man many a weary night of writing, lay unopened.
Chapter Twelve
The motley crowd that thronged Edinburgh’s High Street turned briefly from their midday routine of eating, drinking and bartering to stare at the magnificent coach with its scarlet-liveried outriders which rattled over the cobbles.
The marquess stared out of the coach at the crowd. Some gave him a mock cheer and several of the women waved. He drew
back, remembering Lady Frank’s words before he had left.
“Ever been to Edinburgh, Your Lordship?” Frank had asked with a gleam of mischief in her eyes.
“No, but I am sure it is an interesting metropolis.”
Frank had given a bark of laughter. “Well, milord, you could call it that. But I’d give a monkey to see how you get along with the natives.”
He searched in his pocket for his scented handkerchief and held it to his nostrils to try to escape from the terrible stench which rose from the streets. How tall and black the tenements stood. He stared upwards and observed with amazement, a housewife throwing the contents of a chamberpot into the street.
At last the coach came to a stop, and one of the grooms explained that he had found Mr. Colqhoun’s direction but it would be necessary to walk. With a sigh, the marquess descended from the coach and signaled to his groom to lead the way. He started at the sight of an enormous, shaggy Highlander wielding a battle-ax who spat in the direction of his Hessians and was subsequently even more surprised to learn that the ferocious gentleman was part of the Edinburgh Civil Guard.
Mr. Colqhoun, however, looked reassuringly the same. “This is indeed an honor, Your Lordship. I was just about to have a bite of luncheon. Would you care to join me?”
The marquess suddenly realized that he was very hungry and readily accepted the invitation. He picked his way through the incredible filth of the High Street until Mr. Colqhoun led him into John Dowie’s tavern. The smoke and the noise were overwhelming and the marquess wondered how he could raise the delicate question of how fared Jean Lindsay’s heart, in the middle of this babble.
But the company of advocates and their clerks and various businessmen and men of letters seemed completely unconcerned by the presence of an English aristocrat, being too intent on their own arguments and discussions. The marquess, who was accustomed to creating a mild sensation wherever he went, found this democracy surprisingly pleasant and remembering that Robert Burns had claimed that “freedom and whisky gang tegither,” he ordered and drank his first glass of the clear liquid and found it went down very well.
