The butler, Mr. Withers, appeared and offered to take her wrap. She swallowed. Should she stay? She wasn’t properly dressed for dinner. Nor invited. Nervously, she removed her hat and handed it to Mr. Withers. Then she untied the bow that released the mantle from her neck and shoulders, and the butler took that from her as well. Roderick’s gaze surveyed her throat and neckline before returning to her overheated face. Why did he want her to stay? Was not this woman, now pausing before them, his intended?
“Miss Lillian Haswell, Miss Cassandra Powell.”
Miss Powell dipped her head politely but reservedly. Lilly returned the gesture. Closer now, Lilly realized that Miss Powell was older than she appeared from a distance. Perhaps a few years older than Roderick Marlow himself.
“I believe I saw the two of you in London together.” Lilly meant it as an indication that she understood they were a couple and she posed no threat. But neither reacted as she’d expected.
Roderick cleared his throat, and Miss Powell looked away. “I do not recall such an occasion.” She flipped open her lacquered fan. “Well, I shall just see myself in.”
“Nonsense, Cass—Miss Powell.” He offered her his left arm, his right still trapping Lilly’s hand to his side. Miss Powell coolly accepted. And Lilly was taken in to dinner, feeling very much like the proverbial lamb being led to slaughter.
I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts,
Albeit all human history attests
That happiness for man—the hungry sinner!—
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on the dinner.
—LORD BYRON
CHAPTER 21
The evening passed more pleasantly than Lilly would have guessed. Roderick Marlow was a gallant host, skillfully including everyone in a conversation that ranged from the London season to fashion, books, parliamentary affairs, and the war with France. Roger Bromley was also a master conversationalist, and managed to compliment both Lilly and Susan in equal measure, so that by the second course, Susan Whittier was smiling with genuine warmth at both Roger and Lilly. Miss Whittier’s chaperone ate silently but voraciously for such a small woman. Toby Horton drank too much and spoke his opinions too loudly, but otherwise the meal passed very agreeably. Even red-haired Cassandra Powell made an effort to show interest in the others, as though she were already mistress of Marlow House.
The meal was finer by far than the plain fare—soups, stews, beef and kidney pies—she’d either prepared or been given since returning home. Finer even than most of the tables she had seen laid in London. For the first course they were served green-pea soup, crimped perch with Dutch sauce, stewed veal and peas, lamb cutlets and cucumbers. Then came a second course of haunch of venison, boiled capon in white sauce, braised tongue and vegetables. Finally, there arrived a third course of lobster salad, raspberry and currant tart, strawberry cream, meringues, and iced pudding. Lilly took only tiny portions from the serving dishes nearest her but still could not eat everything on her plate. Giving herself a respite, she paused to touch a linen serviette to her lips.
“Is the meal to your liking, Miss Haswell?” Roderick Marlow asked, raising his goblet.
“Indeed, sir. Mrs. Tobias is to be commended. I had not a finer meal in all my time in London.”
Roderick Marlow dipped his head appreciatively.
“And how long were you in London?” Miss Powell asked. “A fortnight?”
Lilly ignored her pointed condescension. “A year and a half.”
“Miss Haswell lived with her uncle and aunt, Jonathan and Ruth Elliott,” Roger Bromley said warmly. “Fine people and friends of my parents.”
Even Susan Whittier added a kind word. “Miss Haswell was quite a favorite with the Price-Winters family, Cassandra. You were guest in their grand home on at least one occasion.”
Miss Powell nodded slightly but sipped from her wine glass in lieu of responding.
When the ladies withdrew to allow the men to drink port and smoke their pipes in private, Miss Powell led the way to the drawing room. Lilly followed reluctantly, knowing it would be rude not to join the ladies for at least a short time. Miss Powell went directly to the pianoforte and sat gracefully upon its bench. She ran her fingers over the keys with a flourish, then began playing a dramatic piece. Susan Whittier followed her chaperone’s example and sat on one of the settees. She picked up a book lying on its arm but quickly laid it back down. She and Lilly exchanged an awkward smile. It was difficult to speak over the music, but Lilly sat on a chair near Susan and attempted it anyway.
“Your gown is lovely,” Lilly said, eyeing the evening dress of willow-green crepe with gauze flowers around the hem.
“Do you think so? When I saw Cassandra’s silk was green too, I feared we would clash horribly.”
“It is beautiful, truly.”
Miss Whittier smiled self-consciously. “Thank you.”
Lilly could almost believe Susan an agreeable young woman, when not jealous, vexed, or bored. She hoped so, for Roger’s sake.
Susan leaned closer. “Do not mind Cassandra. I am afraid she wields her disappointments like claws.”
Her tongue as well, Lilly thought.
“She was engaged once, you see, but her fiancé was—”
Miss Powell halted mid-stanza, the chords fading under her words. “How amusing to see the two of you sitting together—all politeness. Two rivals under the same roof.”
“One might say the same of two others, Cassandra,” Susan said cryptically.
What did that mean? Lilly wondered. Two sets of rivals?
Miss Powell’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Susan dear.”
Susan Whittier rose. “Please excuse me, ladies. I am just going to dash to my chamber and freshen my toilette.”
“Good idea.” Miss Powell smiled archly. When Susan and her matronly companion had gone, Miss Powell resumed playing—this time a quiet, moody piece. “Poor Susan. Only wants what she cannot have.”
Lilly thought this quite perceptive. Susan Whittier certainly seemed to only want Mr. Bromley when she thought she could not have him.
“You are a shopkeeper’s daughter, are you not?” Miss Powell asked.
“An apothecary’s daughter.”
Miss Powell lifted one hand from the keys in a dismissive wave. “That explains a great deal.” She played a few more bars, then paused. “But not everything.”
Lilly rose, deciding she had better take her leave before she said something foolish.
“I shall bid you good-night, Miss Powell.”
Cassandra dipped her head slightly, but kept her eyes on the sheet music before her. “I shall be going up in a moment myself. I want to visit Sir Henry. The baronet was up and about all day yesterday. Bested us all at archery, went riding. Quite exhausted himself, I am afraid. Such a pity he was not feeling well enough to join us tonight.”
“A great pity. Do greet him for me.”
Cassandra paused in her playing. “You are acquainted with Sir Henry?”
“Yes, although I have not seen him in nearly two years.”
She nodded, though Lilly had the distinct impression the woman would not bother to pass along the greetings of a mere shopkeeper’s daughter.
Lilly let herself from the room, closing the door behind her.
She asked a housemaid, a girl she did not know, where Mr. Withers would have put her wrap. The girl bobbed a curtsy and ducked through a door. A moment later, the butler himself appeared, holding her mantle while she put on her straw hat. Roderick Marlow appeared in the hall and, seeing her there, quickly strode over.
“Leaving already, Miss Haswell?”
“Yes, I must be getting back.”
He took her wrap from the butler and arranged it over her shoulders himself. She swallowed, uncomfortable with his familiarity, especially in front of Mr. Withers.
She self-consciously took a step away from Mr. Marlow as she tied the bow around her neck.
“Well, good evening,” she said. “Thank you fo
r including me so generously.”
“You are more than welcome. Has Withers called for your carriage?”
Roger appeared in the hall and walked toward them just as Miss Powell came out of the drawing room. So much for slipping away quietly.
Lilly said, in what she hoped were low tones, “No. I walked actually. It is not far.”
Even so, Roger heard her. “Marlow, send for your carriage, will you? I shall escort Miss Haswell home.”
“Never mind, Bromley,” Marlow said. “I shall see Miss Haswell home myself.”
“Really, Roderick,” Cassandra Powell said, passing by on her way to the stairs. “You have guests. The groom can take her perfectly well.”
“Yes, please,” Lilly urged. “I do not wish to trouble you further. I can walk, or if Cecil has time . . . ?”
“Cecil?” Cassandra swung back around, brow arched.
“Cecil Briggs. The groom.”
“Ah,” she said. “Do you know all the servants?”
Lilly lifted her chin. “Yes. I know everybody in the village. Or at least I did at one time.”
“How quaint.”
“As host, I insist on escorting you home,” Roderick Marlow said. “Bromley, if you will be so good as to entertain Miss Whittier while I’m gone. Horton is out cold, I’m afraid. I shall have Withers and Stedman see to him.”
“Oh, very well,” Roger said, as though it were a burden to have Miss Whittier all to himself. His warm gaze fastened on Lilly. “I cannot tell you what a delight it has been to see you again, Miss Haswell. Shall we have the pleasure of your company again tomorrow?”
“No. But I do hope you enjoy the rest of your stay, Mr. Bromley.” Lilly curtsied and he bowed.
Cassandra Powell was already halfway up the stairs without a backward glance.
Roderick called for his curricle and waved off the groom. “I’ll handle the ribbons myself.”
Discomfort flooded Lilly. Alone, unchaperoned with Roderick Marlow, at night? Did he not realize, or did he simply not care? She said, “I think, Mr. Marlow, that given the hour . . .”
“Of course. You are quite right. The landau, please, Withers, and Briggs to drive. No use rousing the coachman at this hour.”
Lilly might have walked home in the time it took to harness the horses and bring the carriage around, but Mr. Marlow would not hear of it. When hooves sounded on the crescent drive out front, he escorted her outside. Cecil Briggs helped her up into the seat, and she did not miss the groom’s speculative expression. He and Charlie had been boyhood friends. When Mr. Marlow leaned close to the groom and delivered some low instruction, Cecil darted a look at her that she could not quite decipher. Surprise? Worry?
As soon as Mr. Marlow was seated beside her in the front-facing bench, Cecil climbed up to his perch and started the horses into a mild pace, seeming in no great hurry. It was quite late, but the moon shone brightly on the summer night, and she could see both men quite clearly.
“When I first saw you in London,” Roderick Marlow began, “I thought I was imagining things. Why did you run from me?”
“I should think that somewhat obvious.”
“Is it?”
“Well, I worried you might . . .” She darted a look at him. “That is, I thought you would . . .”
“Ah.” He nodded his understanding. “You thought I would stand on the orchestra stage and tell the venerable assembly that Miss Haswell was not the privileged, accomplished young lady they imagined her, but rather the cleverest, loveliest, most loyal lady in all of Wiltshire.”
That was not the response she’d expected. What had come over the man? Was he foxed? Did she need remind him of the exquisite redhead waiting at Marlow House?
She acted on this notion. “And when I first saw you in London, you were with Miss Powell.”
“I suppose she is rather hard to miss.”
“She is very beautiful.”
Marlow looked off into the passing countryside. “Yes, and very aware of that fact.”
“All the lads in the village are quite agog, I understand. My brother and my father’s apprentice—that is, his former apprentice—are both quite taken with her.”
“I suppose the young men in this county have rarely seen such a woman.”
“Will they be . . . seeing her often?” Lilly was curious about the former fiancé Miss Whittier had mentioned, but knew it would be impolite to ask him.
He looked at her and smirked. “If she has her way, yes. I believe they will see a great deal of her. You know we Marlows live to please the villagers.”
She raised her eyebrows.
Feigning indignation, he said, “My father is highly respected among them—do you deny it?”
“Of course not. Sir Henry is admired by all.”
“It is only me you take issue with?”
“You do seem improved with age. You certainly appear charming.” “You find me charming. I am pleased to hear it. But you think it only a surface charm? That beneath this façade, I am . . . ?”
He looked at her, waiting while she studied him. She thought of the pills they made in her father’s shop, with their sugar pastes and silver coatings. Pretty to look at, sweet on the surface, but still just as bitter within.
“I pray I am wrong.”
Surprisingly, he let that go. “Pray often, do you?”
“Not as often as I should.” Nor as often as I once did.
Cecil turned the horses toward the north, she noticed, toward Alton. Why was he not simply driving straight into the village?
“What do you petition for, Miss Haswell? What worldly troubles press themselves upon your heart? Starving orphans in London? Slavery in Spain, perhaps? The war with France?”
“No, I am afraid my small prayers are of a far narrower scope. My father. Brother. My dear friend Mary.” She did not mention her mother, though she could have. She was still distracted by the unexpected detour.
“What about dear Mary moves you to pray?”
“She struggles with epilepsy . . . falling sickness. Do you not remember?”
“Oh yes. That girl who has fits.”
Her concern was instantly replaced with irritation. “She is not that girl. She is Mary Helen Mimpurse. The cleverest girl I know. The gentlest, truest friend. The daughter of a war hero and the finest woman in Bedsley Priors—well you are acquainted with her mother.”
“Maude Mimpurse’s daughter? I had forgotten. Forgive me, I meant no disrespect to your Miss Mary Mimpurse. My, how diverting to say that. Miss Mary Mimpurse. Miss Mary Mimpurse . . .”
She found herself chuckling with him and noted they were now driving on a narrow track east.
He suddenly sobered. “By your own admission, the list of beneficiaries of your prayers is quite small. Would you consider adding another?”
“You, sir?”
He pulled a frown, brows raised, “You think I need prayers?”
“We all do, sir. Some more than others.”
“Miss Lillian Haswell, I do believe you are teasing me.”
She grinned.
“Actually, I meant my father. He has fallen ill again. That smug Dr. Foster spent half the morning at his side.”
How foolish she felt now. “Of course I shall pray for your father.”
“Thank you.” They rode on in silence for several moments. Lilly realized that after their brief detour, Cecil had again turned south toward Bedsley Priors.
Marlow said, “But if you happened to mention my name to God now and again, I should not object.”
She smiled. “I shall ask Him to give you humility.”
He cleared his throat. “Let us not ask for a miracle right off, shall we?”
She laughed.
“But of course . . . you Haswells call down miracles at will—is that not right? Your father, the legendary healer and all that. Bringing my own grandfather back from the dead, as they say.”
Lilly bit her lip, then whispered, “That was a long time ago.”
They made the final turning down the High Street.
“Well, here we are,” he said. “I cannot remember when I’ve so enjoyed a carriage ride.”
“Nor I. But then, we haven’t a proper carriage.”
He gave a dry bark of laughter. “Here I think I am about to receive a compliment, and she pulls the chair out from under me at the last.”
Cecil reined in the horses in front of the shop.
“Hold there, Briggs.” Marlow alighted from the carriage, lowered the step himself, and offered his hand to her. She swallowed but placed her gloved hand in his. With a gentle grip, he assisted her down and walked her to the front door.
Retrieving her hand, she looked up at him squarely. “Then here is a genuine compliment. Thank you for your fair treatment of my brother. More than fair. And for your gallant behavior toward me this very evening.”
He bowed. “You are most welcome.” He leaned near, and she felt his warm breath on her cheek. Quietly, he added, “Now go inside before I attempt something less than gallant.”
She hurried to comply.
In the morning, Lilly walked over to the coffeehouse, letting herself in the kitchen door as she always had.
“How did it go last night?” Mary asked, pouring her a cup of coffee.
“It was really very pleasant. Mr. Marlow was quite gentlemanly, even though he had a house party in progress when I arrived uninvited. He even insisted I stay for dinner. I was so glad you’d dressed my—”
“I meant how did it go about Charlie?”
“Oh.” Lilly felt foolish but continued on, “Fine. Perfect. He was quite magnanimous about the whole situation.”
“Magnanimous,” Mary repeated, somewhat skeptically.
“He said Charlie would be welcomed back at any time.”
“Roderick Marlow said that?”
“Yes. He was very agreeable.”
Mary narrowed her eyes. “Really.”
Lilly stirred sugar into her coffee, waiting until young Jane passed by with brush and blacking before adding, “And a former suitor of mine was there as well—you remember the Mr. Bromley I told you about?”
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