The Tudor Signet

by Carola Dunn

  And judging by what Lilian had told Mariette about bluestockings, the volume she chose was undoubtedly intended for the gentlemen.

  An hour later, Malcolm ran Mariette to earth. She was curled up on one of the Chippendale settees Lilian considered suitable furniture for a library--at least, they matched the bookcases. Her nose was buried in a book, but as he entered she glanced up, hurriedly closed the volume, and pushed it down behind a cushion. Then she uncurled and fished with her stockinged feet for her slippers.

  “Put your feet up again,” Malcolm ordered. “You are supposed to be resting, not demonstrating a ladylike posture.”

  “I meant to go up and lie on my bed,” she explained, “but....”

  “But?” he asked when she stopped. “You found a book so fascinating you couldn’t put it down? What are you reading?”

  “Oh, nothing,” she said uneasily.

  “I already know your predilection for Gothick novels, remember.”

  “I shall never read another one!”

  Amused by her vehemence, he wondered what the deuce she had found in Lilian’s minimal collection to which anyone could possibly take exception. “Come on,” he coaxed. “Let me see it.”

  Reluctantly she fished it out from behind the cushion and handed it to him.

  “Voltaire’s Essay on History,” he read. “Good gad--I beg your pardon--good gracious!”

  Mariette looked more defiant than abashed. “Lilian told me ladies are not supposed to care for serious subjects, but I have been wanting to read it this age. The edition at home is in French. I didn’t know it had been translated into English.”

  “You don’t read French?”

  “Only the easiest bits. Maman stopped teaching me French when she married my step-papa, and I have forgotten a great deal.”

  “I expect you could manage with a dictionary.”

  “We have Dr. Johnson’s dictionary,” she said uncertainly.

  “No, a French-English dictionary, which lists French words and gives their translations. Perhaps lexicon is a better word.”

  “I didn’t know there was such a thing! I wonder if the book shop in Plymouth might have one.”

  “Probably.”

  “Do you think it would be very expensive? It would be worth spending my allowance on, though.”

  “A few shillings.” When he married her, she should have every book her heart might desire, even if he had to do without his spectacular waistcoats. He must not be precipitate though, and risk frightening her off. “I’m sure Lilian would lend you this Voltaire.”

  “There are other French books at home. Besides, I don’t want her to know I am reading it. You won’t tell her, will you?”

  “Truth to tell, I’m amazed to find this in her house, and I’d be astonished to learn she had read it. Some guest must have left it by mistake.”

  “And you were shocked to find me reading it.”

  “Not shocked, surprised. You must admit you have never given me the least hint that you are a bluestocking.”

  “Is it so dreadful to be a bluestocking?” Her dark eyes were wistful, appealing. At that moment she could have asked whether it was dreadful to be a cannibal and he’d have heartily denied it.

  “Not at all, or only to men afraid to discover that women are as intelligent as themselves.”

  “Which must be most men, or Lilian would not have warned me.”

  “I daresay,” he agreed ruefully.

  “And you?”

  Did she just want his opinion, or did she really care what he thought? If he advised her to give up reading history, would she do so, or would he have lost her forever? Did he want her to abandon her studies, to join the ranks of young ladies with nothing on their minds but fashion, gossip, their own sensibilities, and the hunt for a husband?

  Heaven forbid!

  “There are not so many men with whom one can hold an intelligent conversation,” he said, “that one can afford to exclude women. What do you think of Voltaire’s history so far?”

  “Have you read it?” She beamed as he nodded. “Oh, splendid! I have a hundred questions and it may be days before I can ask Uncle George.”

  “You must not expect my learning to equal your uncle’s,” he protested, “but let’s see what I can do.”

  He found her mixture of historical erudition and worldly naïveté utterly enchanting. Somehow they ended up in a vigorous argument about Elizabeth Tudor and Mary Queen of Scots, Mariette supporting the practical and accomplished Elizabeth, Malcolm the romantic, tragic Mary.

  Time passed unnoticed until they were summoned to luncheon.

  “We shall have to agree to disagree,” said Mariette, retrieving her slippers.

  “What, has my powerful male reasoning not convinced you?”

  “Not a bit. You won’t tell Lilian, will you?”

  “My lips are sealed. I’ll even smuggle the book up to your chamber for you.”

  Laughing, she took his arm. “I am so glad it was you who won Ralph’s ring.”

  So was he, or he’d never have met her. And yet, once she learned what use he was making of the sphinx signet.... He had to make her love him before she found out, but he could not in all honour ask her to be his wife until she knew the worst.

  * * * *

  The weather remained clear and cold, with no sign of a thaw. As the days passed, Mariette recovered her strength--and her energy.

  Lilian taught her to bridle her energy, to walk at a decorous pace, to glide up and down stairs instead of running, to gesture with languid grace. Mariette mastered every movement, but she was left with a restless need for vigorous exercise which the dancing lessons only partially appeased.

  The servants cleared the worst of the snow from several paths around the house, so she and Lord Malcolm took Ragamuffin out for a run two or three times a day. Sometimes Emily or the captain accompanied them, in which case Mariette strolled with ladylike sloth, leaning on Lord Malcolm’s arm. When they were alone, she matched her stride with his. He did not mind.

  One afternoon when they returned to the house, Lilian drew Mariette aside.

  “I happened to look out of the window,” she said, “and saw you traipsing along at a great pace. Since we are so isolated at present it scarcely matters here, to be sure, except that it may become a habit.”

  “I fear walking fast is already a habit with me, but I am trying to break it, truly.”

  Lilian smiled. “I am sure you are, my dear. And you will not forget, when you go home, that riding astride in breeches is not at all the thing?”

  “You shall never see me riding astride again,” Mariette promised. She simply must get hold of a side-saddle somehow, so that she could ride to Corycombe. As for her gallops on the moor, Lilian never went up there. Nor did anyone else but shepherds and occasional poachers, neither in the least likely to give her away.

  “You are a most satisfactory pupil,” said Lilian. “I doubt there is a great deal more I can teach you. I hope you will come often to Corycombe when the snow melts, nevertheless.”

  “If I may. I shall need reminders and practice.”

  The trouble was that all the lessons were directed towards proper conduct in company--of which there was none at Bell-Tor Manor--and catching a husband. Even if she ever met other gentlemen, she could not imagine wanting any husband but Lord Malcolm.

  As for Ralph, she thought guiltily, her long-held notion of marrying him now appalled her.

  Chapter 11

  “Blount tells me the path to the orangery is cleared,” Lord Malcolm informed Mariette as Ragamuffin bounded ahead of them down the terrace steps.

  “Yes, we ate the last oranges for breakfast today. I doubt they need have dug out the path, though.” She glanced up at the grey sky.

  During the morning a west wind had risen, a warm, soft, moist wind, a harbinger of spring. Now the clouds hung heavy overhead. Already melting snow dripped from the eaves and the flagstoned terrace had puddles here and there. Lord Malc
olm took her elbow to steer her around a large one.

  “It will take a day or two for so much snow to disappear,” he said.

  “Not if it rains.”

  “You must be eager to go home.”

  She could not tell him she wouldn’t mind being snow-bound forever as long as he was there. “I am a little anxious about Ralph and Uncle George,” she said, and found it was true. “Uncle George is quite capable of forgetting to eat if I am not there to remind him. As for Ralph, being stuck at the manor for nigh on a week must have bored him to desperation.”

  Their feet crunching on the gravel, they turned the corner of an ilex hedge, down a walk Mariette had not traversed before. Ragamuffin brushed against the hedge and was showered with mushy snow. He shook himself vigorously, transferring the slush to Mariette’s borrowed cloak. She brushed it off, noting how fast it turned to water.

  Another turn or two and they came to a formal garden, laid out in an intricate pattern of squares. Snow-capped Classical statuary stood about, looking so chilled--what with white marble and exiguous draperies--and so lifelike that Mariette almost expected the gods, goddesses, and heroes to shiver.

  Poor Uncle George, struggling with his pig-badger!

  On the far side of the garden, facing south with its back to a steep-sloped spur of Wicken’s Down, stood the orangery. From up on the moor Mariette had seen the vast expanses of glass glittering in the sun and wondered what it was. Close to, it was still more impressive. Some seventy feet long and two stories in height, the façade was all windows from the ground up, separated and supported by unadorned Doric pilasters. The roof, too, was of glass, upheld by a tracery of ironwork.

  “My brother-in-law’s grandfather built it,” Lord Malcolm said, “at the same time as the house. Corycombe was the furthest south of his estates. Now, of course, the produce is all Lilian’s though I believe she occasionally sends a gift of oranges to the present viscount.”

  Because of reflections, little of the interior was visible from the outside. “May we go in?” Mariette asked.

  “Yes, I have brought the key. It’s kept locked so that the door is not left ajar by accident. The place is heated, as you will feel.” He took a key from his pocket and opened the French door.

  Mariette went first, Ragamuffin at her heels. His claws clicked on the stone floor. Dry heat; she pushed back her hood. A sweet, exotic fragrance.

  Despite all the windows, after the glare of the snow outside Mariette’s sight took a moment to adjust. Then she saw the trees, ranked along the back wall in huge terra cotta pots. Against the glossy dark-green leaves, the orange globes of the fruit seemed to glow, while clusters of snow-white blossom sent forth their aromatic, sensuous perfume.

  “Oh, beautiful! I did not know they bloom at the same time the fruit ripens.” She looked up at Lord Malcolm to share her delight.

  “This is the best time,” he said in an odd voice. And then he kissed her.

  His lips brushed hers, feather-light. His arms went around her, pulling her close. He had unbuttoned his greatcoat and his body was hard against hers, his mouth now firm, insistent, demanding. Mariette put her arms round his neck and clung to him as a wave of shuddering warmth flooded from her lips to her toes and back to the centre of her being. The world was lost; the only reality was his touch, his....

  “Woof!”

  They sprang apart. Mariette’s face burned as if Lilian, not Ragamuffin, had interrupted the embrace.

  “Woof?” He had found an orange and brought it to lay at Lord Malcolm’s feet, in the clear belief that the dearest desire of his lordship’s heart was to play catch.

  Lord Malcolm obliged, his cheeks as fiery as Mariette’s felt. She crossed to the nearest tree and buried her face in its blooms. So that was a kiss, she thought dizzily. No wonder the heroines of romances lost their heads as well as their hearts!

  What did it mean? In books, villains as well as heroes kissed, and even gentlemen did not always reserve their kisses for their beloveds. Lord Malcolm was no villain. He was too much the gentleman to wish to take advantage of her, as his discomfiture proved. But had his embrace been a casual gesture such as gentlemen were prone to, or had it shattered his world as it had shattered hers?

  Her outward composure regained, she turned to observe him as he threw the orange for the indefatigable dog. Though his colour was still heightened, that might easily be from heat and exercise. The heat and the blossom’s perfume were becoming overpowering.

  He glanced at Mariette and smiled, but she was too far away to be sure of his expression.

  Ragamuffin returned once more with the orange. “Enough,” cried Lord Malcolm, laughing. “Slobber is one thing, but now you have punctured it and it’s sticky with juice as well.”

  He went to the door, opened it, and hurled the revolting object into a snowdrift. Ragamuffin eagerly plunged after it.

  Lord Malcolm scrubbed his hand with a handkerchief, put his gloves back on, and buttoned his coat. Apparently studiously intent on each action, he did not look at Mariette until he had finished.

  “Shall we go?”

  She nodded, unsure of her voice. Raising her hood, she moved at her most ladylike glide past him and out into the cold. The stiff breeze no longer felt balmy. She shivered.

  Turning from locking the door, he offered his arm and she took it, just as if nothing had happened between them.

  “I must beg your pardon,” he said softly as gravel crunched once more beneath their feet. “That was unconscionable, unforgivable of me.”

  “Not unforgivable.” Mariette had to clear her throat. “I fear the fault was not entirely yours.” After all, she had not pushed him away, had not struggled, let alone slapped his face. In fact, she admitted, once he was well embarked upon kissing her she had positively encouraged him.

  “I assure you, gentlemen are permitted to assume the entire blame.” Stopping, he looked down at her with a smile. But his eyes were full of warmth with no hint of teasing laughter. “You won’t tell Lilian?”

  “No.” For a moment she thought--hoped?--he was going to kiss her again, but he resumed walking. Mariette sighed. “It seems her insistence on a chaperon is vindicated.”

  “Yes.” Now he was laughing. “Ragamuffin performed that rôle most excellently, do you not agree?”

  And she had to laugh, too, and once more they were on the easiest of terms.

  As Ragamuffin emerged backwards from the drift, looking like a snow-dog, heavy raindrops began to fall. After a good shake, he pranced forward, very proud of himself, and laid the squishy orange at Lord Malcolm’s feet.

  “Not a chance, old boy! After the orangery it’s cold out here, and wet, and we are going back to the house. Though, come to think of it, the stables are undoubtedly the place for you at present. If you’ll excuse me, Mar...Miss Bertrand, I shall desert you and take him to be dried.”

  Mariette was quite glad not to face the others with him at her side, and also glad of a little time to think before she faced them. At the next corner they separated and under an increasing downpour she hurried towards the house.

  To return to their old, friendly footing was better than to wallow in embarrassment until she returned home. Yet how she wished he had declared his love, offered his heart, begged her to marry him. It had been a casual kiss after all, the result of mild affection meeting the luxuriant scent of orange blossom. She was indeed at fault for responding with such fervour. He was a true gentleman to take the blame upon himself.

  She stopped stock-still on the terrace steps as a thought struck her. He was a true gentleman, and a gentleman did not offer for a lady without her father’s or guardian’s permission. Was he waiting to speak to Uncle George?

  It was almost too much to hope for--but not quite.

  * * * *

  “Is this land your uncle’s?” Lord Malcolm enquired as the bays trotted sloshily along the muddy lane.

  “Yes, the Bell-Tor Manor estate begins where we drove out of the woods b
ack there.”

  From the high seat of the curricle, Mariette could see over the bare hedges, neatly pruned down for the winter. On either side spread dun meadows grazed by red Devonshire cattle, interspersed with ploughland already hazed with green winter wheat. The rain had stopped in the night; the sun shone, and the snow was gone except for streaks on the north side of hedgerow and copse. Spring was definitely in the air in this favoured south-western corner of the realm, though gales and storms might yet be on the way.

  Ragamuffin, sitting on Mariette’s feet, snuffed the air with an expression of bliss.

  “The farms look to be in good heart,” said Lord Malcolm, sounding surprised.

  “Mr. Taffert is an excellent bailiff, as I told you, and Uncle George does not begrudge the expenditure necessary to keep things running smoothly.”

  “Very wise.”

  “Ralph grumbles that it is all run on shockingly old-fashioned lines.”

  “Your cousin is interested in farming?” Now he sounded astonished.

  “Well, no,” she confessed reluctantly. “He talks grandly of modernization, but I fear it is no more than a word to him. If he were to try, I doubt Uncle George would oppose him.”

  “Mr. Barwith must be the most easy-going of men.”

  “Oh, he is. He’s a dear.”

  “It’s a pity your cousin don’t make the effort, for the new methods of agriculture, new breeds of animals and varieties of crops, often produce impressive results.”

  Mariette turned her head to stare at him. “You know about agriculture?” she asked.

  “Very little. I’ve had no cause to study but I grew up on a great estate. My father owns a vast number of acres, and he and my eldest brother are both progressive landlords. It’s interesting and one cannot help learning a bit.”

  “I know what you mean. Simply talking to the tenants and Mr. Taffert I have learned a little. Like living in a house with a library full of history, it is inevitable--except that Ralph has succeeded admirably in avoiding any interest in either history or farming. Oh, I do hope he has not fallen into the suds while I was away!”