Tokens of Love

by Mary Balogh

  She stared at him, and then gathered her skirts to hurry from the garden toward Berkeley Street. After a moment, her maid hastened after her.

  Piers watched them go. His gaze followed them until the last flutter of Marianne’s gauze scarf as she vanished from his view. Then he tugged on his hat, and strode across the garden to his waiting cabriolet. He seized the reins and vaulted into the seat, flinging the horse forward almost before the tiger had had time to clamber on to his perch at the back. The yellow vehicle skimmed around the square and’ then turned north toward Oxford Street.

  The horse flew over the cobbles, and Piers handled the ribbons like the expert he was, but his driving was almost automatic, for his thoughts were all of Marianne.

  “Damn you, Marianne Cromwell,” he breathed. “Damn you to perdition and back!”

  ———

  London was far behind as Mr. Pendeven’s traveling carriage drove west toward Gloucestershire and the Forest of Dean. A second carriage followed, conveying their luggage, maids, and a valet. The weather was still fine and sunny, and all trace of the recent snow had gone, even from the hilltops.

  The carriage’s three occupants had made themselves as comfortable as possible for the journey, with rugs over their knees and warmed bricks in cloth beneath their feet, for in spite of the sunshine, it was still February and still cold.

  Mr. Charles Pendeven, Chloe’s widowed father, had nodded off to sleep, his head lolling against the brown leather upholstery. He was a tall, rather gaunt man, with receding sandy hair and a Roman nose, and when his eyes were open, they were a watery blue. He was well wrapped against the winter, with a coat that boasted numerous shoulder capes, and a scarf that was wound several times around his neck. His hands were pushed into a fur muff of immense proportions, and even in his sleep he was conscious of the motion of the carriage gradually causing the rug over his knees to slide off, and he put a hand out from the muff to retrieve it.

  Marianne and Chloe were respectively bright and modish in yellow trimmed with ermine, and crimson with plaid accessories, and were never at a loss for something to talk about. They conversed happily on subjects ranging from fashion and etiquette to scandalous whispers and even about whether or not the Prince Regent would ever be reconciled with his loathed wife, Princess Caroline of Brunswick. But it was of the marriage of the royal pair’s only child, Princess Charlotte, that they were talking when Mr. Pendeven was at last aroused from his slumbering.

  Chloe was sighing over the romantic good looks of the princess’s new husband, Prince Leopold. “He is so handsome,” she breathed. “And with those dark, dark eyes, he quite puts me at sixes and sevens when he looks at me.”

  Mr. Pendeven sat up quickly, thinking that she was speaking of Jerry. “Eh? What’s that? Look here, Chloe, m’dear, I know I’ve allowed myself to be cajoled into this dashed difficult stay, but if you imagine I am going to permit you and young Frobisher to make sheep’s eyes at each other, you are gravely mistaken.”

  Chloe colored. “Father, I wasn’t talking about Jerry but about Prince Leopold.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Pendeven gave a rather scathing grunt. “That dry prig? Can’t think what the women see in him. He hasn’t an ounce of humor in him, and I don’t give him long in his wife’s good books. She’s too much of a hoyden, and will soon find him a dull fish.”

  “They are deeply in love,” Chloe replied a little crossly.

  “That’s as may be, but it won’t last, you mark my words. Love can be very transitory and very ill-judged,” he observed, giving his daughter a meaningful look. “Which is, of course, how I view your infatuation with Frobisher.”

  “It isn’t an infatuation, Father. Jerry and I will always love each other,” Chloe declared stoutly.

  “That I doubt very much, for the likes of Frobisher do not settle down to a faithful married life, and if he sets one foot wrong while he’s under my roof, he’ll be out on his worthless ear.”

  Chloe tossed Marianne a pleading look, and Marianne hastily gathered herself for her appointed task. “Mr. Pendeven, I am sure that you are mistaken about Sir Jeremy, for I have found him to be everything that is honorable and attentive toward Chloe. I am sure that he truly loves her.”

  Mr. Pendeven gave her a fond smile. “What a loyal friend you are, Miss Cromwell.”

  “I would not say it if I did not believe it, sir.”

  “I know, Miss Cromwell, and it is only because of your support for Sir Jeremy that I have been persuaded to give this harebrained scheme a chance.”

  Marianne’s accusing glance crept to Chloe. Only because? Evidently Chloe had jumped the gun somewhat where her, Marianne’s, backing was concerned.

  Chloe lowered her eyes a little guiltily.

  Mr. Pendeven continued. “I will give Frobisher the benefit of the doubt, but I warn you that if anything, anything at all, disturbs the peace of this visit, I will call a halt to it immediately. I am afraid that I must be totally honest and say that I am looking for an excuse to send him packing. I don’t want someone of his reputation as my son-in-law, and I certainly mean to protect Chloe from him if I possibly can.”

  There was silence, and no one said anything more as the carriage continued to bowl westward along the highway.

  ———

  They spent the night at the ancient market town of Northleach, high on the exposed Cotswold Hills, and when Marianne immediately fell into a deep sleep, her dreams were of Piers.

  It was Saint Valentine’s Day, 1815, and she was waiting for him to call. She had dressed with great care, putting her hair up into a knot with a single heavy ringlet tumbling to the nape of her neck, and she wore an ice-green muslin gown embroidered with tiny white flowers. There was a bloom in her cheeks, and her eyes were alight with happiness. The valentine card she had so carefully made lay waiting on the table beside her as she looked out of the window for his carriage to drive along Berkeley Street to the house.

  He came at last, pausing almost impatiently to surrender his coat, hat, and gloves to the butler, and then he was in the room, stepping swiftly over to her. Their fingertips touched, and suddenly she was in his arms, crushed close and dear as his lips sought hers. She could feel his heartbeats, and she was aware of how her whole body stirred to meet him. His lips were warm and firm, becoming more urgent as he felt her yield against him.

  Rich desire overwhelmed them both, and his face was flushed as he drew back. “Would you have me anticipate our vows and take you here and now?” he breathed, his eyes dark with passion.

  “I love you so much, Piers,” she whispered.

  “As I love you. Dear God, as I love you.” He cupped her face in his hands and covered it with kisses until at last their lips were joined again.

  It was several minutes before they pulled apart, and she turned to give him the valentine card. The betrothal ring on her finger caught the February sunlight through the window as she held the foolish card out to him.

  “You are my valentine, Sir Piers Sutherland, and you always wili be,” she said softly.

  Their hands brushed as he took the card, and when he had read the verse, the desire was still bright in his eyes as he looked at her again. “My sweetheart divine,” he murmured, smiling at her.

  “I have never been more happy in my life, Piers.”

  “You will be, on the day you become my bride,” he promised, and then he took a small package from his pocket. “Did you think I would fail to give you a valentine gift?”

  “What is it?”

  “A trinket.”

  She opened the little present, and her breath caught as she saw the emerald-encrusted comb inside. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

  He took the comb out and fixed it to the knot in her hair. “There. The perfect adornment for the most perfect of women.”

  “I am hardly perfect. I have dreadful freckles, my mouth is horridly wide, and—”

  He stopped her words with his finger, pressing it lovingly to her lips. “To me yo
u are perfection, Marianne Cromwell, the most perfect and precious thing in all the world, and I will be your slave forever.” He bent his head to kiss her again.

  The dream faded away, and Marianne lay in the strange bed in the cold light of the February dawn. She could hear stagecoaches in the yard outside, and the sound of someone singing in the kitchens directly below her room, but it was as if she were in another place, a quiet place where no one could see her misery. The dream had gone now, but she could remember it only too clearly.

  For all his loving protestations, he had betrayed her, and when she had returned his betrothal ring, she had returned the emerald comb as well. But he had never returned the valentine card. No doubt he had consigned it to the fire.

  ———

  It was almost sunset on the day before Saint Valentine’s Eve when at last the carriage drove up the straggling main street of the town of Newnham, perched or. a low rocky hill above the tidal River Severn, which was several hundred yards wide at this point, and a place of sandbanks, currents, dangerous tides, and hundreds of waterfowl. To the east, on the other side of the river, the land was flat and fertile until the foot of the Cotswolds; to the west, behind Newnham, rose the high wooded hills of the ancient royal forest.

  Half a mile above the town, set in a glorious park which swept right down to the water’s edge, was Severn Park, home of the Pendeven family for almost two hundred years, since the land was granted to them early in the reign of Charles I. Newnham and the Pendevens had been staunchly Royalist during the Civil War, and had been at daggers drawn with the Parliament-supporting village of Arlingham across the river.

  The house was in the Dutch style, built of warm pink brick with stone dressings, and it had beautiful gables that were adorned with scrolls, whorls, and pediments. The mullioned windows were pedimented as well, with lead lattices, and the stone porch jutted out into the wide gravel area where the curving drive ended in front of the house.

  Marianne alighted, and halted in breathless admiration as she gazed down through the park toward the river. It was a glorious scene, made all the more memorable by the setting sun, which sank behind the forest in a blaze of crimson and gold.

  Chloe came to her side, and gave a wistful sigh as she too gazed down at the panorama stretching away below them. “Just think, in a day or so from now, perhaps even on Saint Valentine’s Day itself, I will be able to stand here with Jerry. Can you think of anything more romantic?”

  “It’s very beautiful indeed,” Marianne agreed.

  Chloe gave her a sly glance. “And just think too, you might have been able to stand here with Sir Piers, but now it will probably only be with Mr. Forrester instead.”

  With that she turned and followed her father into the house, leaving Marianne to stare after her in astonishment. Surely Chloe couldn’t have meant to speak so disparagingly of Brandon? Nor could she have intended to hint that to be with Piers would have been infinitely preferable, since she didn’t know him. Yet that was exactly the impression she had given. And given very clearly.

  ———

  After a delicious dinner of Severn salmon caught that very morning, they adjourned to the drawing room, where conversation again touched upon Mr. Pendeven’s opposition to his daughter’s proposed match with Jerry. He made it abundantly clear that he would pounce upon the first excuse to bundle Jerry out of the house, and when he had retired to his bed, leaving Chloe and Marianne alone at last, Chloe immediately and anxiously reminded Marianne that nothing was to be allowed to go wrong.

  “Nothing will go wrong, Chloe,” Marianne replied, taking her hands sympathetically.

  “I’m just so very anxious, for if Jerry is sent away…” Chloe’s voice broke, and she bit her lip as she tried to quell the sob that rose in her throat.

  “I will do everything I can to help, and I’m sure Maxwell will as well,” Marianne promised. She paused then. “Chloe, when we first arrived tonight, you mentioned Brandon.”

  “Did I?” Chloe’s eyes were wide and puzzled. “I really don’t remember.”

  “You mentioned Piers as well. It was as we were standing looking at the view before coming into the house.”

  Chloe shrugged. “I’m sorry, Marianne, but I really don’t recall saying anything. What did I say?”

  “That I might have been able to look at the view with Piers, but instead would probably have to make do with Brandon instead. Something along those line.”

  Chloe seemed surprised. “Did I really say that? I didn’t mean to, truly I didn’t. I must have spoken without thinking, I’m afraid I do that sometimes. You see…” She broke off, and lowered her eyes.

  “What is it?”

  “Well, I can’t help being aware that you loved Sir Piers very much, and that you are only fond of Mr. Forrester. I’m sure that the way you once felt about Sir Piers, you would have been overjoyed to be with him looking at our view. I’m also sure that the way you feel about Mr. Forrester isn’t at all like that. Am I right?”

  Marianne looked away. Yes, of course she was right…

  Chloe squeezed her hands. “If you still love Sir Piers, in spite of everything, please think very carefully indeed before you accept Mr. Forrester.”

  “I don’t love Piers,” Marianne replied, but she knew the words sounded hollow. Taking her hands away, she left the drawing room to go to her room.

  Chloe pursed her lips thoughtfully. “You’re a dreadful fibber, Marianne Cromwell,” she murmured. “I’m far, far better at it than you; indeed, I have a positive talent.” She smiled.

  ———

  Marianne slept very soundly that night, so soundly that she didn’t hear the traveling carriage arrive in the small hours and draw up on the gravel below her window. The first thing she knew about it was when Chloe crept silently into her room in her nightgown and wrap, and placed a lighted candle on the table before coming to the bed and shaking her shoulder to awaken her.

  “Marianne? Wake up, please,” she whispered urgently.

  Marianne stirred slowly. “Mm?”

  “Wake up, please.” Chloe shook her again.

  With a start, Marianne’s eyes flew open and she stared up at her friend in the candlelight. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I think you’d better put on your wrap and come downstairs with me. And don’t make a sound, for we mustn’t wake Father.”

  Astonished, Marianne sat up in the bed. “Go downstairs? Why?”

  “There is something vital we have to sort out now, before we all come face-to-face in the morning,” Chloe replied mysteriously, taking Marianne’s pink woolen wrap from the chair by the dying fire and handing it to her. “Please come with me, Marianne, for it’s very important indeed.”

  Marianne slipped from the warmth of the damask-hung bed, shivering as she put on the wrap. Her hair tumbled in confusion about her shoulders, for she always scorned to wear a night bonnet, and she paused for a moment to drag a brush through it before facing Chloe again.

  “I’m ready, but are you sure you won’t explain anything further before we go anywhere?”

  “I would, if I knew what to say.” Chloe looked quite wretched. “Everything has gone wrong, Marianne, and now I’m afraid that the atmosphere here will be so awful that Father will soon send Jerry packing.”

  “Sir Jeremy has arrived?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what is wrong?”

  Without replying, Chloe picked up the candlestick and led her from the room. They went down the shad owy dark oak staircase, and then across the richly paneled great hall to the drawing room, the door of which stood ajar. Candlelight swayed within, and as they approached, Marianne could hear the murmur of male voices.

  Chloe entered the room first, and then stood aside for Marianne to do the same. Two gentlemen stood by the huge, ornately carved fireplace. One was Jerry. ITie other was Piers.

  Marianne halted in startled dismay. “Piers?” His name slipped from her lips.

  He straightened and
faced her, executing a brief bow. “Marianne.”

  She stared at him. His greatcoat had been tossed casually around his shoulders, his blond hair was tousled, and his gray eyes were a little uneasy as he met her gaze.

  “I didn’t know, I swear it,” he said. “I agreed to assist Jerry out of a difficulty, and had no idea that you would be here as well.”

  Jerry looked wretchedly apologetic. “It’s my fault entirely, Miss Cromwell. Maxwell had to cry off at the last moment, and since Piers is my friend, I asked him to step in. I’m afraid I quite forgot what happened… a year ago.” He shuffled his feet uncomfortably, and then took off his heavy greatcoat and dropped it on to the table. Running his fingers through his dark hair, he faced Marianne again. “Forgive me, please, Miss Cromwell, for I didn’t intend to embarrass either you or Piers.”

  Chloe put her candlestick down, and then looked imploringly at both Marianne and Piers. “I know it’s a great deal to ask, but it’s so important to Jerry and me that I have to beg you to put your differences aside, just while you are here.”

  Piers glanced at Marianne and then looked at Chloe, shaking his head. “It’s out of the question that I should stay here, Miss Pendeven.”

  “But you must! My father is just waiting for a reason to call the whole business off, and if he does that…” Chloe’s voice trailed away into tears, and Jerry hurried to her, pulling her lovingly into his embrace.

  Over her bowed head, he looked at the other two. “Please do this. For us. All we ask is that you tolerate each other for a short while. Chloe is desperately anxious to have her father’s blessing for our marriage, and that is the whole point of this visit.” He searched their faces in the candlelight. “A congenial ambiance is what is required over the coming days, especially on Saint Valentine’s Day itself. If you will do this for us, we will be forever in your debt.”

  Marianne returned his look wretchedly, and then turned hesitantly to Piers. Would it be possible? For their friends?

  He saw the inquiry in her eyes, and then nodded, although with how much reservation she could not tell. “I will try if you will, Marianne.”