by Carola Dunn
“Thank you, sir,” she said, her cheeks hot. “I shall walk the rest of the way.”
“May I offer Miss Bertrand my arm, Lilian?” he enquired meekly.
“Yes, you wretch. Do try to behave yourself!”
He grinned. “Within reason,” he conceded.
It was exceeding odd, thought Mariette, how the feel of his arm beneath her hand now disturbed instead of soothing her. She shivered.
Lord Malcolm put his hand over hers. “You are cold. Charles! Bring a rug to the morning room and build up the fire. Footmen do have their uses,” he said to Mariette, “but Lilian is out in her reckoning if she supposes I shall trust him to carry you on the stairs.”
She tried to hide her agitation and speak calmly. “If Lady Lilian thinks it wrong, sir, I cannot allow you to carry me.”
He patted her hand. “Don’t worry, I shall sort it out with her before you go up again.”
Altogether confused and uncertain of what she wanted, Mariette was glad to collapse onto the sofa. Emily bustled about her, stuffing in cushions here and there.
Lord Malcolm and Lady Lilian vanished, but Miss Thorne sat nearby, rigidly erect, her mouth pursed, knitting another--or the same--mustard-coloured garment. Mariette had not seen the companion since her original awakening in this house. She felt she ought to thank her for the loan of the nightgown, but perhaps the mention of such a garment was improper. She began to wish she had not been so determined to leave the refuge of her chamber.
“There,” said Emily, “are you quite comfortable?”
“Yes, thank you.” She smiled at the obliging girl. In the last few days she had grown very fond of her. Emboldened by Emily’s solicitude, she ventured, “Good morning, Miss Thorne.” Surely the woman could not object to a simple greeting.
“Good morning, Miss Bertrand. How fortunate that you are recovering so rapidly.”
“Is it not splendid, ma’am?” said Emily.
“Humph. No doubt Miss Bertrand will be able to leave Corycombe in a day or two. I am sure she cannot wish to stay where she is not...quite at home.”
“As to that, ma’am, I must rely upon Dr. Barley’s and Lady Lilian’s advice.”
“I hope you will stay more than a day or two, Mariette,” cried Emily in dismay.
“Emily,” snapped Miss Thorne, “I am sure you ought not to address Miss Bertrand by her Christian name.”
“She said I may, ma’am.”
“Your mama cannot possibly approve.”
“Mama says it is for Mariette to decide. We are good friends now, you know.”
Miss Thorne sniffed.
The footman came in with a rug, which Emily tucked around Mariette’s legs. “Your groom’s here, miss,” he announced, “which, hearing as you’re down, he was wondering could he have a word with you.”
“Jim? Oh yes!” said Mariette, hoping for messages from Uncle George and Ralph. “Pray show him in.”
“A groom in the morning room?” Miss Thorne quivered with outrage. “Unthinkable!”
“Mariette.” Lady Lilian came in. “Your groom is asking to see you. Do you feel up to it?”
“Yes, I shall come at once.” She pushed back the rug.
“Heavens, no, stay there. You have walked quite enough for the present. Charles, pray go and bring him here.”
“Into the morning room, Lilian?” Miss Thorne gasped.
“Blount says the man is perfectly respectable and respectful, Cousin Tabitha, and Mariette must be anxious for news of home. Perhaps you prefer to remove to the drawing room.”
“I certainly do! This is not at all what I am accustomed to.” She swept out, trailing mustard wool.
“Oh dear,” said Lady Lilian, “what a staid life we must live if a groom in the morning room causes such a flutter.”
“I’m sorry,” Mariette said, unhappily aware that once again she had done the wrong thing. “Jim is such an old friend--I did not think...”
“I am not in a flutter,” Lady Lilian assured her dryly, “and it is after all my morning room.”
“Your groom is your friend?” Emily asked with interest.
“Yes, he’s a dear.” She refused to repudiate friendship for the sake of etiquette. “It was he who suggested I ask Uncle George for ponies for me and Ralph, and he taught us to ride.”
“Is that why you don’t use a side-saddle?”
“We started out bareback, because there were no pony-size saddles. When we grew too big for the ponies, there were old saddles in the stables we could use, but no side-saddles.”
“Mama, I should like to learn to ride. Side-saddle, of course,” Emily added hastily.
“As a girl I enjoyed riding,” Lady Lilian mused. “Your papa was so afraid I might fall, I gave it up and we never had you taught. Well, my dear, I can see no reason why you should not. But at present it is time you went to practise your music.”
“Yes, Mama. Thank you, Mama!” Emily kissed her mother, swooped down to kiss Mariette, and went off with a joyful beam.
“I’m afraid I am causing all sorts of turmoil in your household, Lady Lilian,” Mariette apologized.
“Perhaps a certain amount of turmoil is no bad thing.”
“An excellent thing, in moderation.” Lord Malcolm came in, followed by Jim, who was greeted with delight by Ragamuffin. “Keeps the rust off,” Lord Malcolm went on. “What particular turmoil are we discussing?”
“Emily wants to learn to ride.”
“Did you not tell me once that Frederick would not let you ride because he considered side-saddles unsafe?”
“Aye, pesky things they be,” Jim interjected, nodding his grey head. “Not fit for more’n a bit of a trot. Begging your pardon, my lady.”
Lady Lilian, a trifle disconcerted, said firmly “Emily will learn to ride with a side-saddle or not at all.”
“Miss’ll do right enough wi’ your head groom, my lady. A steady sort o’ fellow, and me own nevvie.”
“Is he, indeed! Well, Mariette, I shall leave you to talk to your man. I suggest you ask him to bring you more clothes since you are well enough to come down. Do not tire yourself. Are you coming, Malcolm?”
“No.” He gave his sister a lazy smile. “No, Jim shall be our chaperon.”
Jim turned pink, twisted his hat in his gnarled hands, and muttered something indistinguishable. Lady Lilian cast a glance of reproof at her brother but departed without him.
“Do sit down, Jim,” said Mariette.
“It ain’t fitting, miss.” He gazed round at all the elegant chairs, painted white and gilt and upholstered in spring-green satin, then down at his grubby leather breeches.
“My neck will get stiff if I have to look up at you.”
“Here you are, Jim.” Lord Malcolm brought a plain cane-bottomed chair from the marquetry writing table in the window and set it where Mariette could see the groom without turning her head. He went to stand by the fireplace, leaning against the white and gold mantelpiece. Ragamuffin flopped on the hearthrug at his feet.
“I thank ‘ee kindly, m’lord.” Creaking a bit at the knees, the old man lowered himself onto the chair. “Well, Miss Mariette, you’re better seemingly. The master’ll be glad to hear it.”
“How is Uncle George?”
“Same nor ever, miss, same nor ever. I did hear as he’s been working on that there big lump o’ granite us brung down off the moor twenty year sin’.”
“Oh dear!”
“Why do you say ‘oh dear’?” Lord Malcolm enquired with interest.
“Because Uncle George only chips at the granite when he is troubled, which is rarely. Sandstone is much easier to work with, so it doesn’t matter as much when a statue goes wrong. They all do, you see,” she admitted. “I wonder what has disturbed him.”
“Your accident and your absence, perhaps,” he said a trifle acidly.
Mariette brightened. “Do you think so? Perhaps he’s a bit lonely. Has Ralph been much at home, Jim?”
“Nay, m
iss, Master Ralph’s off down to Plymouth most every day.” He spoke with deep disapproval. Jim had his own notions of what was right and proper. “There’s some nights he don’t come home till morning, the losel.”
“He is young, Jim,” she excused him, swallowing her dismay, and her hurt that he had not come to visit her. She did not want Lord Malcolm to think ill of Ralph, for if he despised her cousin, how could he help but despise her, too? “There’s not much for him to do at home. How is Mrs. Finney? Will you ask her to pack up the rest of my clothes for me?”
It was all very well for Lady Lilian to tell her she needed more clothes at Corycombe but she already had almost everything she possessed except a few summer frocks.
At least it seemed her ladyship was not going to send her home in a day or two. She was no longer in any hurry to go home, though she could hardly tell that to Lord Malcolm after all the trouble she had caused him. He did not appear to resent her prolonged stay. In fact he grew more charming every day.
He raised his eyebrows, a slight smile on his lips, and she realized she was staring.
“I have just noticed your waistcoat,” she excused herself, quelling a blush. “It is magnificent!” And it was: pale blue silk embroidered with snowflakes.
His smile broadened to a grin. “I hoped it would amuse you,” he said modestly.
Jim snorted. Mariette hastily turned back to him and enquired after the rest of the servants and the tenants.
All were well--and anxious for news of her--except: “I were down to Bell Valley Farm yesterday, Miss Mariette, fetching the milk. Tom Wilkes wants to cut some trees in Moorside Copse. Weakened by that wind t’other day they was, and he’s afeard they’ll fall.”
“Has he talked to Mr. Taffert?”
“You know how it is, Miss Mariette, folks don’t care to take their questions to Mr. Taffert. Not as he’s a bad chap in his way, but a furriner and curt-like, and they don’t feel comf’table.”
“Mr. Taffert is your uncle’s bailiff?” Lord Malcolm asked.
“Yes, an excellent man, and I get on very well with him but as Jim says he’s rather stiff and taciturn, and he’s not a local man. From Okehampton, I believe, north of the moor. Many of the tenants prefer to approach him through me when they want or need something.”
“They don’t go direct to Mr. Barwith?”
“Oh, Uncle George just agrees to whatever they ask and tells them to go to his bailiff! If they come to me, I can explain the difficulty to Mr. Taffert, then he goes to the tenant and gives his answer. It may sound odd and cumbersome but it works, doesn’t it, Jim?”
“Aye, m’lord, and everybody happy. What’ll I tell Tom Wilkes, Miss Mariette?”
“I shall write to Mr. Taffert and you must take him the letter.” With caution, Mariette started to lever herself upright.
Lord Malcolm crossed the space between them in two strides and pushed her down with a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t sit up.”
“I can manage, just for a few minutes. My...I am much better, truly, and I cannot write lying down.”
“No need. You shall dictate to me.”
“Dictate?” she said uncertainly.
“You tell me what you want to say and I shall write it.” He moved one of the satin-covered chairs to the writing table and took out writing materials. “I am said to have a legible hand, if not a neat one, though my spelling leaves something to be desired. Only don’t speak too fast, if you please.”
This last request sent Jim into a paroxysm of silent, knee-slapping laughter. Far from being offended, Lord Malcolm grinned and asked, “What’s the joke?”
“That’s just what us was allus telling Miss Mariette when first she come to the manor, m’lord. Gabble away she did, wi’ bits o’ Frog talk thrown in. Us couldn’t hardly make head nor tail of it.”
“How did you learn to speak English so well, Miss Bertrand?”
“I had an English governess in France. Maman and I lived with her in London until maman married my step-papa. Maman was always very particular about a correct accent, so after...after they died and I came to Devon, I always asked Uncle George if I didn’t know how to pronounce a word I found in a book.”
“Do you remember your French?”
“Not very much.” She was puzzled by his look of relief. “I was only six when we came to England. I hardly remember my father at all. He was usually away in Paris, and much too grand when he came home to pay any attention to a little girl.”
“Mr. Taffert, he’ll want a letter in English,” Jim hinted, so they turned to business.
* * * *
Pausing at the top of the stairs, Mariette struggled against the urge to tug on the bodice of her gown. Altered by Jenny’s clever needle, it fitted much more snugly than she was accustomed to. She felt exposed.
Lady Lilian had wanted to give her a new gown. All her clothes were most unsuitable now she was well enough to sit in the drawing room, well enough to meet callers. Mariette had not pointed out that she was well enough to go home. How could she bear to be parted from Lord...from her new friends?
Nor did she protest that she didn’t want to meet the neighbours, none of whom had ever seen fit to call at Bell-Tor Manor. If her kind hostess wished to present her to them, she would just have to do her best, keep her mouth closed and endure whatever scorn her gaucherie brought down upon her.
So, though she could not possible accept any new clothes, she allowed Jenny to alter her old, drab, heavy woollen gowns. The abigail even sewed on a bit of lace and some ribbons taken from dresses Emily had outgrown. Putting on the navy blue, now trimmed with a light blue satin bow at the waist and lace around the high neckline, Mariette had felt quite smart. With Lord Malcolm standing below in the hall, handsome and elegant and looking up at her, she had this awful urge to tug on the breast-hugging bodice.
Her hesitation alarmed him. “What is wrong?” He started up the stairs, two at a time. “Pray lean on my arm.”
She was tempted. “No, I must do it myself. I am quite all right, only a little stiff.”
“Hold onto the banister.”
Obeying, she glanced back at the hovering abigail. “Thank you, Jenny, I shan’t need your help. I expect Lord Malcolm will catch me if I fall over my own feet.”
“With pleasure,” he assured her, a glint in his eye.
Was he flirting with her, or just teasing? Mariette was not sure. She moved very carefully down the stairs.
At the bottom, he gravely congratulated her, and insisted that she lean on his arm to cross the hall.
The drawing room was an impressive apartment. Corycombe was no larger than Bell-Tor Manor but it was modern and well cared for. The rooms were beautifully proportioned and elegantly decorated, and the woodwork gleamed. Sinking onto a sofa provided with extra cushions by the attentive Emily, Mariette gazed around.
The predominant colour was a smoky blue-grey, reminding Mariette of Lord Malcolm’s eyes. Gold braid and fringes on crimson curtains and cushions picked up the tones of the portrait over the fireplace, a young gentleman in ceremonial robes.
“That is Papa,” Emily informed Mariett, “in his finery for the opening of Parliament. He was Viscount Farrar of Dorland. My uncle is Lord Farrar now and lives at Dorland. It is a very grand house but I like Corycombe better. Your papa was a French lord, was he not?”
“Yes, though it is immaterial as there are no lords in France any more.”
“Oh, but there are,” said Lord Malcolm casually. “Since he crowned himself emperor, Bonaparte has created a new nobility and restored some of the old to their ranks and estates.”
“Has he?” Mariette said, surprised. “I know he is emperor--the servants and tenants talk and Ralph sometimes brings home a newspaper--but Uncle George doesn’t take one and the books in our library are all at least twenty years old.”
Emily clapped her hands. “How splendid, Mariette, perhaps you can recover your papa’s estate!”
“Hardly! Recollect that we are at
war with France and Boney is our enemy! I would not accept a brass farthing from the monster.”
“Oh yes,” said Emily, disappointed.
Lord Malcolm smiled warmly at Mariette, so warmly she was suddenly much too hot. Fortunately Miss Thorne came in and her glance of icy disapproval instantly cooled Mariette’s burning cheeks.
“Did you ask her ladyship whether she wishes to admit you to her drawing room, Miss Bertrand?” she asked suspiciously.
They all spoke at once.
“Mama invited Mariette.”
“It was Lilian’s suggestion.”
“I assure you, ma’am, I’ve no desire to encroach.”
“Humph!” sniffed Miss Thorne and took her mustard knitting from her tapestry-work knitting bag. “I suppose Lilian knows what she is about.”
That day the only callers were the vicar of St. Bride’s in Wickenton and his wife. A benign but somewhat lethargic elderly couple, they were not inclined to be critical, especially as Mariette was from a different parish.
She carefully observed Lady Lilian’s and Emily’s every word and action, and kept her mouth shut except when directly addressed. Enquiries about her health were easily answered--she had no intention of disclosing the site of her injuries!--and comments on Lady Lilian’s Christian charity were equally easy to respond to. She managed not to put either herself or her kind hostess to the blush.
The next day was more difficult. Word had spread that Mariette was on show and a constant stream of visitors came to view her.
Again she took refuge in reticence. Most were polite enough and did not pester her with questions, Lady Lilian having made it clear that she was convalescent. Nonetheless she heartily sympathized with the caged wild beasts her step-papa once took her to see at the Tower of London.
Most trying were Sir Nesbit and Lady Bolger and their offspring. Miss Bolger, a muffin-faced girl a year or two older than Emily, stared at Mariette with alarm in her prominent eyes, as if afraid she might bite. Young Mr. Bolger knew Ralph and loudly pronounced him a rattling good fellow, an out-and-outer up to every rig and row. He continued in this vein until his father, still more loudly, announced that if his son and heir followed Riddlesworth’s example he’d find himself at Point Nonplus in no time.
