Amaryllis

by M C Beaton

  “Anything will do,” said Amaryllis wearily. The fire was smoking dreadfully and seemed to do nothing to dispel the damp chill of the room.

  When Mrs. Fletcher came back with an armful of clothes, Amaryllis indicated the fire. “Does it always smoke so much?”

  “Only when the wind’s in the east,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “Any other direction and that fireplace is the best in the county. When you are dressed, my husband is going to serve you and my lord with a meal in the coffee room, us not having a dining room.”

  “Thank you,” said Amaryllis, waiting for her to leave so that she could change into dry clothes.

  Mrs. Fletcher hesitated in the doorway, pleating her apron in her work-roughened hands.

  “Would you and my lord be eloping, miss?” she said.

  “Good heavens, no!” said Amaryllis, looking as bad-tempered and glacial as Lady Warburton. “What on earth gave you such a non-sensical idea?”

  “I’m right sorry, miss, but we do get couples from time to time, and there’s always trouble.” Mrs. Fletcher leaned one plump shoulder against the doorjamb, and showed all the signs of one about to settle down to a good gossip.

  “I do mind,” she said, “squire’s daughter over at Three Elms what eloped with Johnny Mercer. They hired this chaise and got Joey Duddle, the postillion, to drive them, promising him something extra should he get them up the Gretna Road. But Joey had forgotten to wear his nightcap the night before, and the cold he got as a result made him deaf. He had prime animals harnessed up and he was scampering away at record speed with the young couple in the back, satisfied that no one could catch ’em now. Well, there was a crash and a crack and a scream from the lady. The bolt connecting forewheels with body had snapped—and the chaise fell forward in the middle of the road. Johnny Mercer was screaming blue murder, but that deaf postillion heard not a word and cantered forward until he drew up at the next posting inn with nothing but a forecarriage and a young lady’s trunk behind him. By the time he hurried back, the young lady’s family had arrived on the scene and the elopement was over.”

  Amaryllis shivered and Mrs. Fletcher laughed heartily. “The people we’ve had here. Five month ago, a pretty gentleman had dinner here, roasted chicken and bottle o’ wine. After dinner, he went out into the yard and rode away. He hadn’t paid his reckoning, so my Jem took out his horse and rode after him and caught him at a place called Two Bridges, and he says, ‘I believe, sir, you forgot to pay.’

  “ ‘Oh, dear, I believe I did,’ says the gentleman, putting his hand in his pocket as if for money. But he pulled out a pistol, which he claps to Mr. Fletcher’s breast, saying he would shoot him if he didn’t deliver up his horse and his money. Which my Jem did, never being one to argue with a pistol.”

  Mrs. Fletcher gave a fat chuckle, met the steely glare in Amaryllis’s eyes, and backed off hastily, shutting the door behind her.

  Amaryllis sighed with relief. She stripped off her wet clothes and scrubbed herself as hard as she could with a rough towel until her skin was glowing.

  The borrowed underwear was yellow and darned but spotlessly clean and smelling of lavender. The gown was a serving maid’s one, being of print cotton with a low-cut, laced bodice, the loose high-waisted fashions of the Regency having not yet reached the lower orders.

  She brushed her damp hair after rubbing it with a towel.

  The cotton gown was a shade tight on her, which meant that the absconding servant girl must have been very thin indeed. But after loosening the lacing on the bodice, she found it fitted her pretty comfortably.

  She could not help but wonder, however, as she studied her reflection in the glass, how servant girls should be allowed to wear such provocative costumes.

  The stiffened bodice pushed up her breasts into two globes, the top halves of which peeped above the low neckline. The skirt was short, well above the ankle. She pushed her feet in their borrowed woolen stockings into a pair of clumsy buckled shoes which were a whole size too big for her, and with her wet clothes over her arm, clumped off downstairs.

  She found her way to the kitchen first. Mrs. Fletcher took the clothes from her, promising to have them washed and dried by morning.

  “Morning!” exclaimed Amaryllis. “Oh, no, Mrs. Fletcher. We shall not be staying the night. If you could please clean the mud off them and iron them dry as quickly as possible. We must reach Patterns tonight.”

  “Begging your pardon, miss, but I don’t see as how you can, the roads being that bad.”

  “I will speak to my lord,” said Amaryllis firmly. It would be ridiculous indeed if the Marquess had ridden through the storm to save her being compromised, only to compromise her himself.

  The inn parlor was small and cozy, with a roaring fire and two candles in flat sticks on the table casting a pool of light over the small table which had been set for dinner.

  Dinner was a simple affair of roast chicken, squab pie, cold ham, and woodcock, with apple pie and jam tartlets to follow.

  The Marquess was silent and withdrawn. He wore an odd assortment of clothes: a frieze shirt thrust into old black knee breeches, woolen stockings, and heavy shoes. He had a belcher handkerchief knotted about his throat and a green cord coat with many pockets, much the worse for wear.

  His drying hair gleamed gold in the candlelight.

  At last he finished his meal and pushed his chair back slightly from the table.

  “If you will excuse me, my lord,” said Amaryllis, “I will go and see if my clothes are ready.”

  “Why worry?” he said, raising his eyes to hers. “You look very fetching in that servant’s gown. You have charms that are better displayed than they normally are.”

  Amaryllis put a protective hand up to her half-exposed breasts, wishing she had a fichu. “We cannot stay here. We must be on our way.”

  “I’m afraid not.” The Marquess poured himself a glass of wine, and twisting the stem in his fingers, studied the effect of the candlelight reflected in the wine.

  “But I will be compromised after all!” exclaimed Amaryllis.

  “Not you,” he said dryly. “Lady Warburton will go out of her way to believe the best of things so that I may fall unsmirched into the loving arms of Cissie.”

  “But it is not just a question of Cissie,” said Amaryllis. “What of the other guests at Patterns?”

  “Staying in separate rooms in a public inn hardly counts as a night of sin, Amaryllis. Do you want to marry me?”

  No, thought Amaryllis sadly. You don’t want me.

  Aloud she said, “That is out of the question.”

  Was it a trick of the light, or did his face suddenly look set and stern?

  “In that case,” he said quietly, “you should be glad I am not using the situation to force you to marry me.”

  Amaryllis felt weary and dispirited. Although he was still sitting opposite, he seemed to have withdrawn miles away from her.

  “I think I will retire,” she said, rising to her feet, “since we are to spend the night here.”

  He waved a hand in dismissal, but did not look up.

  Amaryllis walked to the door and stood with her hand hesitantly on the knob.

  “Goodnight, my lord,” she said.

  Still he did not reply, and with a heavy heart she went up to her damp, uncomfortable room. There was a leak in the roof, and water popped and plonked onto a corner of the floor. She stood an empty water jug under it, but the noise changed to a maddening ping, and she found she could not sleep. The wind had died down, but she could still hear the roar and chuckle of the water in the gutters.

  At last she fell into an uneasy sleep and dreamed of highwaymen, hearing shouts and screams and men cursing. She awoke at dawn, feeling as if she had not slept at all.

  She pushed open the casement window and looked out. The rain had stopped, and the day was sad and mournful and gray. Dead leaves lay in brown sodden heaps, and the soaked thatch of the cottages dripped onto the village street.

  There
was a smell of frying bacon. Amaryllis dressed in the servant’s clothes and made her way downstairs.

  At the foot of the stairs stood Mrs. Fletcher, twisting her apron in her hands and looking the picture of misery. Beside her stood the landlord, cursing fluently. Facing them was the Marquess, his face tired and grim.

  “What’s amiss?” cried Amaryllis, hurrying down the stairs.

  Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher began to speak at once, but the Marquess held up his hand for silence and turned to Amaryllis.

  “Thieves came in the night,” he said, “and broke into the stables. They have not only taken the landlord’s horse but my horse as well.”

  “Oh!” Amaryllis put her hand to her mouth in dismay. “What are we to do?”

  “Walk,” he said. “At least it is not raining, and we should soon be home. By my reckoning, we are only ten miles across country from Patterns.”

  “Then someone could possibly be sent with a message?”

  “No. I think we are both rested enough. Ten miles is not so far. Whoever took my horse will not get very far, since he will not allow anyone to ride him but me. But if he succeeded in throwing his rider, then he would probably gallop in the direction of Patterns. Come, get your clothes from Mrs. Fletcher and let us away.”

  “We will take breakfast first?”

  “Of course,” said the Marquess curtly. “God, I am weary of this adventure.”

  Amaryllis flinched, but he was staring moodily out the open inn door at the drab grayness of the morning.

  After she had changed into her own clothes and had eaten a large breakfast, Amaryllis was beginning to feel more cheerful, although she was still sore and tired from her journey of the day before.

  The Marquess sat by the fire in the parlor, polishing his riding boots until Amaryllis thought he would never be done. At last, he seemed satisfied with their gloss. He drew them on and adjusted the cravat.

  Amaryllis pulled on her cloak, but left the ruin of her bonnet behind.

  They walked together along the village street in silence. Fallen golden leaves from a row of elm trees covered the road. Once they were beyond the village, a slight fog veiled the woods beside the road in a purple mist. Some of the oaks still had half their foliage, and their leaves were in autumn shades of bronze and brown. Yellow bracken glowed in ferny clumps, and the air was spiced with the smell of wet leaves. The morning was gray and misty and perfectly still.

  “I wonder you did not try to buy a horse from someone in the village,” ventured Amaryllis, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in all the still quiet of the wet countryside.

  “I paid our shot at the inn last night,” said the Marquess, “and I am sadly out of pocket. Had I had the money, I would have thought twice about buying any of the broken-down hacks the village had to offer in order to ride a mere ten miles.”

  They walked along in silence again. Amaryllis found she was already tired. Her boots were dry after their soaking, but the leather was hard and tough and a sharp bit on the upper was cutting into the top of her foot.

  She found it hard to keep up with the Marquess’s long strides. At last she gasped, “Oh, please do slow down.”

  He slackened his pace. “I am sorry,” he said in a tone of voice which suggested he was not sorry at all.

  “Oh, damn and blast!” he said suddenly.

  “What is it?”

  The Marquess stopped and pointed over to their left. They had taken a narrow country lane which led out of the village, Mr. Fletcher having given them instructions as to how to reach Patterns by the quickest way. She followed his pointing finger.

  The trees at the side of the road had thinned out. Across the fields, sliding toward them, was a great high bank of gray fog.

  “Perhaps a wind will spring up,” suggested Amaryllis nervously, “and blow it away before it reaches us.”

  “We cannot depend on that. Here! Take my arm. You must try to walk more quickly.”

  Amaryllis groaned, but she took his arm and they set off briskly down the road.

  After they had gone a little way, the trees closed in on either side again. Although it was still early morning, the day was growing increasingly dark, but so far the country lane stretched out in front of them, free of fog.

  “Perhaps we will make it,” said the Marquess more cheerfully. “We must have walked a couple of miles at least.”

  They turned a bend in the lane and looked in front of them in dismay.

  Like some great beast waiting to pounce, the fog bank bulked large in the middle of the road, and even as they watched, it started to roll toward them.

  There was something uncanny about its approach. One minute, the trees stretched their branches up to the gray sky on either side of them, the birds chirped plaintively, and water gurgled in a ditch beside the road. The next, they were enveloped in a thick blanket of fog. The birds fell silent, the trees disappeared from view, and even the water seemed to fall silent.

  For a while, there was something dreamlike about all this gray silence. Amaryllis was content to walk at the Marquess’s side in a world in which no past or future seemed to exist. She glanced up, noticing his relaxed expression, and wondered whether he was feeling the same.

  At last he spoke. “I have an idea we have missed our turning. Only see how rough and narrow this road has become. I fear it is going to disappear at any moment. Can you recognize anything? Any landmark?”

  Amaryllis shook her head. “The mist changes everything. If I was here before, then it would have been in summer. My feet hurt rather badly,” she added.

  He put his arm about her and gave her a quick hug. “You are a Trojan,” he said warmly. “I am sorry I was so harsh with you back at the inn. I am sure we have only a little way to go.”

  As if to mock his words, the road, which had been growing rougher and narrower by the minute, ended up against a stone wall.

  The Marquess cursed softly under his breath. “Well, let us hope this is the wall of someone’s property,” he said cheerfully. They walked along through tall, wet grass, following the line of the wall.

  “I think this might by Patterns,” Amaryllis was just beginning to say, when the mist thinned slightly and a building loomed up in front of them.

  “A lodge!” said the Marquess.

  They walked quickly forward until they could see it was indeed a lodge, standing behind tall iron gates.

  “The south lodge,” laughed Amaryllis. “We are home!” Then her laughter died as a feeling of dread took over. Lady Warburton would undoubtedly blame her for everything, from the inclement weather to the Marquess of Merechester’s missing horse.

  The lodgekeeper was out in the grounds somewhere, and so they had to face the final mile’s walk home. A little breeze sprang up and the mist began to shift and change. Soon it became tinged with a yellow color as the sun somewhere high above tried to shine through.

  The mist snaked around the boles of the trees in long trailing wreaths. The wind grew stronger, and, all at once, the great bank of fog shredded and dispersed and a cold blue winter sky stretched above their heads.

  When the great bulk of Patterns came into view, the Marquess stopped and turned to face Amaryllis. He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her upturned face.

  “I think you had better marry me, Amaryllis,” he said quietly.

  She flushed and looked down.

  “You said there was no reason why I should,” she mumbled. “You said . . .”

  “Oh, I said, I said. I am asking you to marry me, girl. Yes or no?”

  She looked up at him again, her wide gray eyes almost black. “Do you love me?” she asked.

  “Ah, so you demand everything,” he said, his voice holding a mocking edge. “And if I said yes?”

  “There are no ifs and buts in love,” sighed Amaryllis. “You have answered my question. There is no need to marry me, sir. Lady Warburton will be only too ready to believe the best.”

  He walked on so rapidly tha
t she had to scamper after him to catch up.

  “After all,” she panted breathlessly, “you are practiced in the art of making ladies fall in love with you.”

  “On the contrary,” he snapped, slowing his step. “I am practiced in the art of making sure they don’t. Who put such a goosish notion in your head?”

  “Lord Donnelly.”

  “And one must always believe people like Lord Donnelly, must one not? The only person you will not believe on the subject of me is myself. It is in Donnelly’s interests to woo your attention away from me. Oh, why are we arguing? I am sick to death of this whole business.”

  Amaryllis felt tears pricking behind her eyelids. Why was he so harsh with her? If he had taken her in his arms and said he loved her, there would be no happier woman in the whole of England. She suddenly realized how deathly tired she was.

  They parted silently in the great hall of Patterns. Dimly, Amaryllis heard the servants’ exclamations of dismay over her appearance. Kind hands helped her up to her room. A bath was carried in and clean clothes laid out.

  At last, washed and changed into fresh linen and a clean gown, Amaryllis received a summons to go to the drawing room, where Lady Warburton was waiting for her.

  She took one step in the direction of the door, and then turned about and fell face downward on the bed and down into the welcome depths of sleep, into a deep dark world where the Marquess’s mocking voice could not trouble her, nor the spite of Lady Warburton come to plague her.

  Chapter Seven

  Lady Warburton held a council of war with her husband. Lord Warburton was, for once, in almost as spleenish a temper as his wife. He felt as if he were about to choke, but fashion decreed that one must suffer to be beautiful, and usually Lord Warburton suffered its dictates nobly, but this day he felt a longing to throw away his starched cravat, his high-starched collar, his corsets, and his paint and take several long, deep breaths.

  Her ladyship had had recourse to the medicine bottle several times since the arrival of Amaryllis and the Marquess. Lord Merechester had given instructions with such a possessive air about him that Lady Warburton feared the worst and Cissie had gone into strong hysterics, howling that Amaryllis had stolen Merechester from her.