by Carola Dunn
He was disconcerted. Accustomed to playing the idle fribble to all but his closest friends, he adopted the pose automatically in company. It was not difficult. He had been an idle fribble--until disgust at his way of life led him to investigate the possibility of a career in the Navy, an institution devoid of brotherly precedent.
His foray to the Admiralty had led not to a life at sea but to a meeting with a certain gentleman. This gentleman suggested that no one would suspect him of hunting out England’s enemies at home since no one imagined he had anything on his mind but the design of exotic waistcoats. So Malcolm joined the hunt while continuing to hide behind his waistcoats and his mask of inanity.
He had not considered how odd it must appear to Mariette. The circumstances of their meeting had not allowed a pretence of indolence. Knowing her to be perceptive, he ought to have reckoned she would notice and be intrigued by the change in his manner.
Not that it mattered. He was convinced she was not a French spy. However, her cousin was probably in it up to his neck and she had proved she would go to great lengths to protect the wastrel. She must not guess Malcolm had any purpose in Devon but to visit his sister.
“Many people behave differently in company and with their intimate acquaintances,” he said. “You do yourself.”
“I!”
“Ask any one of our callers these last few days and they will say you are reticent, even bashful. That is not at all how I should describe you.”
“Oh! How...? No, I am sure I had best not ask.”
He would have told her anyway but Miss Thorne interrupted. “Miss Bertrand,” she said sharply, “since you are able to sit up now, I am sure you are as capable as Emily of holding my wool for me. She ought to be practising her music.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Resignedly she started to get up.
Malcolm put his hand on her arm. “You stay here, where all has been arranged for your comfort. Miss Thorne, pray take my place.”
Grumbling, Miss Thorne gathered her wool. Emily, passing on her way to the pianoforte, leant down and whispered to Mariette, “Sorry! When I told her I must practise I did not suppose she would call on you instead.”
“I don’t mind,” said Mariette. “I like to hear you play.”
Emily looked gratified, and Malcolm felt a sudden extra rush of love for Mariette. How the devil had she managed to bring herself up to be so utterly enchanting?
* * * *
The last ball of wool was nearly finished when Lady Lilian returned to the drawing room.
“Cousin Tabitha!” she said in dismay, “Mariette should not be holding your wool for you. She is a guest, and convalescent besides.”
“Humph!” said Miss Thorne, winding the last strand. “The least she can do is help where she is able.”
“I don’t mind, Lilian, truly,” Mariette assured her, though her arms were tired and aching from holding up the skeins. “I can scarcely claim to be convalescent still.” It was the perfect opening to announce that she was well enough to go home, but she hesitated. Miss Thorne would be so pleased to be rid of her! She had rather tell Lilian alone.
“Where is Malcolm?” Lilian asked, looking around the room.
“He went to take Ragamuffin for a run in case it snows later.”
“As though a groom could not take the dog out!” Miss Thorne snorted, stuffing the balls of wool into her knitting bag.
“I expect Malcolm will be glad of the fresh air.”
“Humph! Catch cold, more likely.” With a sniff, Miss Thorne marched to her preferred place by the fire.
Lilian watched her go, a tiny frown creasing her brow.
“I don’t believe Lord Malcolm is likely to catch cold,” Mariette said hesitantly, “not just from taking Ragamuffin out for a little while.”
“I wonder what...Not that she has ever been precisely conciliatory...I beg your pardon, I was woolgathering! Malcolm catch cold? No, not at all likely. He is excessively healthy for all his hothouse airs. But, oh dear! I do hope Captain Aldrich will not be caught in a snowstorm and fall ill.”
“Is the captain not in good health? Somehow one thinks of naval men as being fit for anything.”
Lilian gave an embarrassed laugh. “I daresay he is, and I am making a mountain out of a molehill. He has lost his arm, you see, and no longer goes to sea, but of course that does not mean he is not otherwise robust. Indeed, he seemed quite hale and hearty.”
“Mama,” said Emily, coming to the end of the piece she was playing, “may I stop practising now?”
“Go on a little longer, my love. The Clementi is still not quite right. Perfect it and you may play it this evening for our hero of Trafalgar. I wonder whether Captain Aldrich cares for music?” she said to herself in a musing tone. “I do hope so.”
Mariette was dying to know more about the Navy captain who awakened such solicitude in her hostess. “Who is he?” she enquired. “I thought I knew the names of all the neighbours for several miles around.”
“Captain Aldrich is a schoolfriend of Malcolm’s, a close friend, I collect, although some years older. As he lives in Plymouth, or rather Devonport, Malcolm looked him up when he came to Corycombe. They have some sort of business together, though what I cannot imagine.”
“Business? Perhaps Captain Aldrich has good ideas for spectacular new waistcoats.”
“Oh no, the captain is a serious man. He dresses quite plainly--perfectly gentlemanly,” Lilian hastened to add, “but with nothing of the dandy, like Malcolm. No doubt their ‘business’ is no more than an excuse to linger over the port and reminisce about old times.”
“Linger over the port?” Mariette was confused. “But the captain is coming here, is he not, not Lord Malcolm going to Devonport?”
“A colloquial phrase, my dear, which illustrates the disadvantages of not speaking the plainest English! In Society, it is the custom after dinner for the ladies to leave the gentlemen to take a glass of port or brandy.”
“Oh, Uncle George always drinks a glass of brandy after dinner, but he likes me to keep him company.”
Lilian looked aghast. “Surely you do not drink spirits!” She sounded aghast, too.
“You mean brandy? No, cannot like the taste! I generally have a glass of negus--sherry wine and hot water, that is. Is negus a...a colloquial word?”
“No, it is perfectly unexceptionable.”
“And...and drinking it?”
“Also unexceptionable. Mariette, I did not mean to find fault.”
Mariette waved aside her apology. “If you will not tell me, how shall I learn? For a lady to drink brandy is not acceptable?” she asked earnestly.
“Unless a very elderly, infirm lady, for her health. My dear, do you wish to learn how to go on in Society? I should be very happy to teach you.”
“You will? Oh, splendid!” Mariette clapped her hands. The movement made her arms ache slightly, from holding Miss Thorne’s wool. She remembered how she had declared that she was no longer convalescent. “But I am well enough to go home,” she said sadly. “I was thinking of leaving tomorrow. I cannot trespass on your kindness any longer.”
“That is nothing, but I daresay your uncle is in want of your company and we ought not to keep you from him.” Lilian pursed her lips in thought. “Perhaps you could come over to Corycombe for lessons, whenever it is convenient?”
“May I?” She was actually invited to call! “I would practise at home,” she promised.
“Practise what?” Emily abandoned her music to join them. “Are you going to learn to play the pianoforte, Mariette?”
“No, your mama is going to teach me elegant manners.”
“Mariette feels she should return home tomorrow...”
“So soon? Must you go, Mariette?”
“But she will come here, frequently I hope, so that I may advise her.”
“Oh, famous! And I cannot wait to see Bell-Tor Manor.”
“We shall have to see about that,” said Lilian, indulgent but firm. �
��Now, let me hear you play your sonatina.”
So they would not be calling at the manor. Mariette realized the acceptance she had won was only partial, doubtless dependent on her progress in her studies of etiquette.
Which led to the thorny question of how she was to attend those studies. To ride across the moor to Corycombe, astride in breeches, would be to fail before she started. By road the distance was a dozen miles, two hours or more each way behind the aged Bonnie in the yet more ancient, bone-shaking trap.
The trap it must be. No difficulty was great enough to make her give up the chance to prove to Lord Malcolm that she was capable of behaving like a lady, neither ramshackle nor bashful.
The trouble was, he did not live at Corycombe. How much longer did he intend to stay?
Chapter 9
Just as Emily finished the Clementi sonatina to her mama’s satisfaction, Lord Malcolm returned to the drawing room. He was wearing buckskin breeches and a riding coat, which Mariette thought became him even better than his elegant morning dress. His face had a healthy glow from the fresh, cold air. Nothing could have looked less like the languid fop he had seemed earlier.
“I killed two birds with one stone,” he told her, “exercising both Incognita and Ragamuffin. He has excellent manners when accompanying a horse.”
“Yes, he never gets underfoot--under hoof, I should say, as our cook at the manor frequently complains of his being underfoot in the kitchen.”
“Any dog of the slightest intelligence hopes to trip up someone in the kitchen who is carrying something worth eating. Excuse my riding clothes, Lilian,” he went on as his sister and Emily joined them. “I told Des you would not mind if he dines in his again, as otherwise he’d have to go to the expense of hiring a carriage.”
“Of course, he will be more comfortable if you are not in evening dress. It is not snowing, is it?” She glanced anxiously towards the window.
“No. In fact, the clouds are thinning. I even caught a glimpse of blue.”
“Drat!” cried Emily.
“Emily dear!”
“I mean, what a pity!”
“I thought you liked the captain,” said her mother, obviously chagrined.
“I did, Mama. I do, and I hope he arrives safely, only I hoped the weather might be too horrid for Mariette to leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Lord Malcolm frowned. “You are leaving tomorrow, Miss Bertrand?” He looked accusingly at Lilian.
“I cannot ask Mariette to absent herself from her home any longer, Malcolm, but we have arranged that she will visit us often.”
She smiled at Mariette, who gave her a grateful look. How tactfully she had phrased it, so as not to expose Mariette’s need of instruction to Lord Malcolm. Of course, he knew as much as Lilian, or more, about her inadequacies, and he’d soon discover the purpose of her visits...if he stayed on at Corycombe.
He was gazing at her with an air of discontent. Would he be sorry to see her go? Perhaps it was just as well she was leaving. She was growing altogether too fond of Lord Malcolm’s company.
Was that why she had forgotten to tell Jim this morning that she was coming home tomorrow?
“It is not too late to send a message to Bell-Tor Manor, is it?” she said guiltily. “Our our groom will have to drive the trap tomorrow to fetch me.”
“Nonsense, you shall...” Lilian started.
“Fustian, I shall...” said Lord Malcolm at the same moment. He bowed to his sister. “After you.”
“I was going to say, you shall have my barouche to take you home, Mariette.”
“I was going to offer to drive you in the curricle, but you will be more comfortable in the barouche,” he said regretfully, then brightened. “But I shall ride alongside to make sure you do not meet with an accident...or a highwayman.”
As she thanked Lilian, Mariette met his laughing eyes and glared at him, willing herself not to blush. However attractive, he was a shocking tease!
Lilian rang for tea. Afterwards, Mariette retired to her chamber to rest before her first dinner below stairs. She was a little nervous about the great occasion, but it did not seem to have dawned on Lilian that her table manners might be at fault. Lilian was in a flutter, apparently over the prospect of seeing Captain Aldrich, so Mariette did not like to trouble her with a request for guidance.
She managed well enough at luncheon. If she watched carefully and copied what she saw, she could not go too far wrong, she told herself. At least she knew enough not to stay to drink port with the gentlemen!
She was eager to meet the captain, to see what sort of man caused such fidgets in Lilian who remained cool and calm even when pursued by the obnoxious Lord Wareham.
Her first sight of him was a disappointment. When she went down to the drawing room, only Lord Malcolm and his friend were there. They stood by the fire, talking. The captain was about the same height as Lord Malcolm, broader in the shoulders, too thin for what should be a sturdy frame. As the gentlemen turned on hearing her entrance, she saw the empty sleeve of his threadbare riding coat pinned across his chest.
Quickly she shifted her gaze to his face. He appeared much older than Lord Malcolm, aged by pain, she guessed, as well as by a seaman’s exposure to the elements. Whatever attracted Lilian was by no means immediately apparent.
“Miss Bertrand, allow me to present Captain Aldrich.”
“How do you do, Captain.” She knew that much was right.
Bowing, he looked at her with obvious curiosity and a hint of wariness. Shabby as he was, he must wonder why his fellow-guest was wearing a dowdy old woollen gown which had plainly seen better days. Mariette wished she had an evening dress, preferably spectacular silks and laces to dazzle Lord Malcolm, but at least a pretty muslin so his friend would not take her for a scarecrow.
Not that she cared what the captain thought of her, except insofar as his opinion might influence Lord Malcolm.
For the moment, Lord Malcolm was as solicitous as ever. “You should have sent for me when you were ready to come down,” he said reproachfully. “You know I like to be there when you descend the stairs, lest you should fall. Come and sit down.”
“I manage the stairs perfectly well,” she protested, but she took his arm and let him lead her to her waiting cushion. “Will you not be seated, gentlemen?” she said, having heard Lilian speak thus to her visitors.
Lord Malcolm gave her an approving smile as they sat down.
“You have been ill, I understand, Miss Bertrand,” said Captain Aldrich. “I trust you are rapidly recovering?”
“Yes, sir, I thank you.” The country people always thanked one for asking after their health. Correct or not, it was polite. Should she say something about his arm in return? No, she decided, he probably did not like to have attention drawn to it. “I am going home tomorrow,” she said instead.
“You live nearby?”
“Just a mile or two over Wicken’s Down, though it is quite a distance by road.” That subject exhausted, she sought desperately for another and recalled maman’s comments on the English habit of endless polite conversation about the weather. “Is it snowing?” she asked.
“No, ma’am, the sky is clear at present and the air is very cold. However, the wind is from the southwest and a bank of clouds is visible in that direction which will probably blow in before daybreak, so we may have snow later.”
Lord Malcolm laughed. He was his usual self with the captain, not the languid dandy. “Asking a sailor about the weather is like asking a tailor about the set of a sleeve,” he said. “You get a good deal more information than you require.”
Captain Aldrich’s grin made him look ten years younger. “I’d like to send you to sea in charge of an elderly frigate and see how fast you learn to read the signs,” he said. “When one’s life as well as one’s livelihood depends on the weather, Miss Bertrand, one becomes more weather-wise than the most farsighted farmer.”
Mariette would have liked to pursue the topic. She had read abo
ut voyages of exploration from Henry the Navigator to Captain Cook, and naval battles from Actium to Trafalgar. Storms had helped Sir Francis Drake defeat the Spanish Armada off Plymouth, she knew. It would be interesting to discuss the weather’s effect on other occasions.
However, Lilian had come in and heard the captain’s comment. “You are ashore now, Captain Aldrich,” she said gaily, “and may expect to find shelter from any storm. I have had a chamber prepared for you so you need not ride back to Devonport tonight.”
He sprang to his feet and clasped the hand she offered him. “My lady, you are very kind,” he said gruffly. He bowed but did not release her hand.
Recalling how quickly Lilian had removed her hand from Lord Wareham’s clasp, Mariette was fascinated to see that she made no effort to extricate herself. The pair gazed into each other’s eyes.
“I thought I must have dreamed you,” the captain said in a hushed voice.
Lilian’s cheeks, already pinker than usual, took on a deeper rose. She was looking particularly pretty, her fair hair done in a more frivolous style and a bright Paisley shawl over her grey silk dress. Stars shone in her blue eyes.
Envious, Mariette whispered to Lord Malcolm, “They only met once before? Is it possible to fall in love so quickly?”
“Yes,” he said with conviction. “Are not the romances you read full of love at first sight?”
“You made plain to me the difference between Gothick novels and real life.”
“May a man not be converted?”
For a breathless moment her heart stood still. Did he...could he possibly mean he had fallen in love with her?
Common sense came to the rescue before she made a cake of herself. As usual, he was teasing. Gentlemen of the first stare did not fall for dowdy country girls of foreign birth. He was talking about his sister and his friend, their spellbound pose evidence enough for any man of the existence of love at first--or at least second--sight.
The spell was broken by Emily, who had come in with her mother and was growing impatient.
“Good evening, Captain Aldrich,” she said, curtsying.
