The Tudor Signet

by Carola Dunn

  Mariette clutched his arm. “Spectacles? Good heavens, I never thought!”

  “You mean he has not tried them?”

  “Not since I have lived here, and his eyes have grown worse all the time.”

  Lord Malcolm shook his head. “Having met the gentleman, I should not be surprised if the notion never crossed his mind.”

  “Where can I buy them?” Mariette asked eagerly as they reached the front step.

  “There is bound to be a spectacle-maker in a city the size of Plymouth. Each pair must be made for the specific individual, I believe.”

  “Oh, I shall get Uncle George to Plymouth if it’s the last thing I do. How can I ever thank you? I am so much obliged to--”

  “No more thanks,” he said firmly. “You expressed your sense of obligation in every conceivable way before we left Corycombe. You will take care of yourself now Lilian and Emily are not at hand to fuss over you, will you not? Ah, here’s Benson with the curricle, and Ragamuffin to bid me farewell.”

  A moment later Mariette was waving to him as he drove off. The damp dog bouncing ahead, she hurried into the house to discuss spring cleaning with Mrs. Finney.

  “When I have called often enough...” he had said. He might even come tomorrow. It sounded as if he wanted Uncle George to learn to recognize him--before he asked for her hand? The possibility no longer seemed such a castle in Spain.

  Threading her way between the statues, Mariette danced.

  * * * *

  As Malcolm turned the bays into the stable yard, Jessup came out to take their heads. He looked tired and travel-worn.

  Malcolm sprang down from the curricle. Despite a drive of four-and-twenty miles through fetlock-deep mud liberally provided with potholes, he was full of energy. He liked Mariette’s absentminded uncle, and rather thought the old man had taken a liking to him, even if he had not recognized him ten minutes later.

  Ralph Riddlesworth was more fool than villain, he suspected. He’d do what he could to save the sapskull’s skin. Now here was Jessup come back with instructions from the Admiralty. With any luck he’d get the spy business cleared up in a few days.

  Then he’d be free to propose to Mariette.

  “Just got back half an hour ago, m’lord,” Jessup said in answer to his query. “Bloody hell, what a journey! Snow, ice, fog, the lot. I brung you a letter, gave it to Mr. Padgett.”

  Malcolm tipped him and told him to leave the horses to the Corycombe grooms and get some rest. “I’ll be sending you down to Devonport in the morning, I expect.”

  “I c’n go this evening if your lordship wants,” said the groom valiantly, swaying with fatigue.

  “No, the morning will do. You’re asleep on your feet, man.”

  Malcolm went into the house, took the stairs two at a time, and rang for his valet. The man knew better than to leave Admiralty papers lying about in his chamber.

  Padgett had the letter stowed away in his inside breast pocket. As he extracted it, he asked, “Miss Bertrand arrived safe at home, my lord?”

  “Yes, the journey did not appear to discommode her. Here.” He handed over a pound note in exchange for the letter. “She asked me to distribute this among the servants. You’ll know better than I, or you can find out, how a lady’s largesse ought to be distributed. Oh, and there is this token for Miss Pennick. You may tell her Miss Bertrand did not part from it without regret.”

  “Certainly, my lord. An amiable lady, Miss Bertrand.”

  Malcolm smiled. “A most amiable lady, Padgett.”

  He turned to the letter. The blob of sealing wax was discreetly stamped with an intricate design difficult to reproduce rather than the Admiralty’s easily recognized mark. He slit it and unfolded the paper. There at the bottom was the official seal, and the signature of a certain gentleman.

  The body of the letter was short. It said, “Return to Town immediately for consultations.”

  “Confound it!” said Malcolm. “Hell and damnation! Oh bloody hell!”

  “Indeed, my lord?” said Padgett.

  “Indeed! I’m called back to London, urgently. You had best start packing.”

  “Everything, my lord?”

  Malcolm stopped reacting and started thinking. He’d be coming back to Corycombe soon whether he remained in charge of the sphinx seal mission or not. The sooner he departed and the faster he travelled, the sooner he could return.

  “I’ll leave at once, on Incognita, so pack just enough linen for the journey. In the morning, when Jessup has recovered, he can take a message to Captain Aldrich, then you and he come on in the curricle.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “I must go and tell my sister.” Malcolm groaned. He could not explain why he was dashing off. What on earth was Lilian going to think?

  And Mariette?

  Lilian was in her private room, thank heaven, so he did not have to stumble through his story in the presence of Emily and Miss Thorne. “I have to go up to Town,” he said lamely. “Urgent business.”

  Taking off her spectacles, she raised her eyebrows. “Urgent business? Oh, I suppose some dunning tailor is threatening to set the bailiffs on you and you have to rush off to rescue your worldly possessions.”

  “Not at all,” he said, but he was not sorry to leave her with the impression that his business might be something of the sort. He explained that he was leaving at once, his servants following on the morrow. “I shall give you a note for Mariette,” he added.

  “Has her uncle given his permission for a correspondence?”

  “No. Dash it, I had no notion I should need to write to her, and anyway the old man scarcely knows who I am.”

  “Then it would be most improper in me to countenance clandestine letters, still more so to be your messenger.”

  “At least you will tell her I shall be gone for a few days?” Malcolm pleaded. “I have every intention of returning to Corycombe in short order, if you will have me.”

  “You know you are always welcome, my dear. However, I am afraid it would be most unwise to allow Mariette to expect your rapid return. When you are in Town, among a hundred beautiful and sophisticated ladies, you may find yourself looking back on your rustic love with dismay and disbelief.”

  “Balderdash! She is the only one for me.”

  “Nonetheless, I will not do more than make your excuses to her. I am grown fond of Mariette, Malcolm, and I don’t want to see her hurt.”

  Malcolm was silent. He had no hope of avoiding hurting his beloved when he unmasked her traitorous cousin. If she could not forgive him for an unexplained departure, she would never forgive him for that.

  Half an hour later, he cantered down the lane along Cory Brook. The drumming of Incognita’s hooves beat a repetitive refrain in his head:

  “I could not love thee, dear, so much

  “Loved I not honour more.”

  Was it true?

  * * * *

  “Who was your fine beau, my dear?” asked Uncle George, chipping away at the sandstone. “Charming fellow.”

  Smiling, Mariette demurred. “I’m glad you liked him, but he is not my beau. Lord Malcolm Eden is Lady Lilian’s brother. He was staying at Corycombe while I was there and he was kind enough to bring me home in his carriage. Uncle George, have you ever tried wearing spectacles?”

  “Spectacles?” The chipping stopped and he turned to stare at her. “Why, bless my soul, no! What a simply splendid notion. I cannot imagine why I didn’t think of it years since.”

  “It was Lord Malcolm’s suggestion. He says there must be a spectacle-maker in Plymouth. Will you go and consult him? You don’t suppose they would be too expensive, do you?”

  “No, no, surely not. Spectacles! Good heavens!”

  “Because Mrs. Finney would like to hire two or three village women to help with the spring cleaning?”

  “Is spring here already?” he said in surprise, glancing up at the sunny windows.

  “Nearly.”

  “Then we
must certainly have spring cleaners.”

  “The thing is, Uncle George, Lady Lilian has been teaching me to conduct myself as a lady, and I should like to go on riding over for lessons--it’s such a long way by road--but I cannot ride astride to Corycombe because then she would think I had ignored her advice, so....”

  As she ran out of breath, her uncle shook his head in dismay. “A young lady ride astride? That will never do, Mariette!”

  “Well, I always have, because Jim Groom disapproves of side-saddles.”

  “My sister was badly hurt in a riding accident,” said Uncle George sadly. “Not Ralph’s mother, another sister, who loved to gallop on the moor. She died young.”

  Mariette patted his hand. “I shall ride astride when I gallop up on the high moor,” she promised, “but for riding to Corycombe I should like to purchase a side-saddle. Only, of course, your spectacles are much more important, and I don’t know what a side-saddle costs.”

  Uncle George waved away her doubts with his chisel. “Don’t worry your pretty head about that,” he said. “You must certainly have a side-saddle. Just have them send the bill to me.”

  “And Jenny Pennick, Lady Lilian’s abigail, says I shall need a proper riding habit, so as not to expose my legs...limbs. But I daresay I can add a train to one of my dresses.”

  “Nonsense, buy yourself a habit, my dear, and a new gown to dazzle your beau while you’re about it. You’re a good girl, Mariette. Spectacles! Well I never! Perhaps I shall be able to see where I’m going wrong.” He turned back to contemplate his pig/badger with a hopeful air.

  Mariette went out to the stables to tell Jim she was going to get a side-saddle, and to ask his advice if she could persuade him to give it. Once convinced nothing he said would sway her, the old man unwillingly admitted there was an old side-saddle hidden away in the hayloft.

  “I didn’t want you a-using of it, Miss Mariette,” he said with a heavy sigh, “but being as you’re set on it, I ‘spect it’ll furbish up nicely.”

  That evening Mariette searched out a piece of stout worsted material left over from making a pelisse. She cut and sewed it into a sort of train which could be pinned to the skirt of the pelisse to make a temporary riding habit. While she worked, Ralph told her about his enforced stay in Plymouth.

  “And then I found a gambling hell,” he said, tossing a gleaming gold sovereign in the air and catching it.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “I daresay you’d call it a gambling parlour or a gaming house now you’ve turned ladylike. It’s just a place devoted to cards and dice, rather than an inn which is really for travellers and eating and drinking and such.”

  “Oh, Ralph, nothing but gambling?”

  “It’s all right, there’s no EO or roulette like they have in London, though I must say I wouldn’t half mind having a go at them. Anyway, you’ve no reason to fuss. I told you, I’ve been winning. The place has brought me luck.”

  She had long since learned the futility of arguing with her cousin about his views on luck, but she could not repress a grimace.

  “Stuck the needle in your finger?” Ralph enquired with a carefree laugh. “Oh, stop fretting, Mariette. I shan’t wager my signet again, I swear it. I’ll tell you what, you take it and keep it safe for me.” He removed the ring from his finger and tucked it away in a corner of her work-box. “There. Satisfied?”

  Mariette endeavoured to stop fretting and be satisfied.

  She finished her sewing in the morning. Though she was moderately pleased with the result and Jim had polished the old side-saddle to a glossy shine, she stayed close to the manor all day. In fact she only left the house to practise riding sidesaddle in the paddock behind the stables. Lord Malcolm might come.

  When he failed to brave the gentle mizzle, she was disappointed but not surprised. It had been too much to hope for. If he cared for her at all, he was by no means ready to declare himself, and to come so soon would appear most particular.

  By the second day, she was so impatient to see him she decided not to wait again but to ride over to Corycombe.

  She owed Lilian a courtesy call to thank her, so there was no reason for anyone to guess Lord Malcolm was the one she most wanted to see. Should she arrive at Corycombe to find he had left for Bell-Tor Manor, she could easily think up an excuse to stay until he returned.

  Jim insisted on going with her. She was glad of his company, not because of the side-saddle, on which she already felt quite at ease, but because a lady was not supposed to ride alone. A lady was not supposed to chat with her groom as they rode, either, but there was no one by to hear--not even Ragamuffin who vanished on the trail of a rabbit soon after they set out.

  It was a cool, clear day, the air calm even on the crest of Wicken’s Down. The grey-green gorse thickets were already dotted with yellow bloom that would soon gild the hillsides. Every step Sparrow took reminded Mariette of the last time she rode this way.

  She could not regret her highwayman adventure. Lord Malcolm might have chosen to drag her before a magistrate, in which case she’d now be sitting in a cell awaiting the Assizes, but he hadn’t. If she had tamely gone to ask him to let her redeem the ring, she would in all likelihood never have seen him again. Even if he did not love her, even if he never asked her to be his wife, she could hope to see him now and then when he visited Lilian, and she had memories to sustain her.

  As they reached the shoulder on the west side of the hill, Mariette drew rein and gazed down at the red-brick house: memories of his kindness, of his teasing, his readiness to discuss history with her instead of condemning her as a bluestocking. Her gaze moved on to the glittering glass of the orangery: memories of his kiss. If Ragamuffin had not barked....

  She sighed and rode on.

  The Corycombe stable yard was crowded. Mariette and Jim stopped under the arched entrance at the sight of a carriage and four, a smart dogcart and pair, and a humble gig with a single bony nag. Benson came round the gig to greet them.

  “Who is here?” Mariette asked him.

  “Lord Wareham, miss.” He hooked his thumb at the dogcart. Then the carriage and gig: “Squire Bolger and family, the vicar and his missus. The Captain’s here, too,” he added with considerably more approval in his tone, handing her down from Sparrow’s back.

  “You’ll take care of Jim, won’t you, Benson?” She was not sure whether it was correct to ask but she wanted to be sure poor old Jim did not get lost in the crowd of smart grooms and coachmen.

  “Aye, miss, to be sure. There’s a bumper of ale for Mr. Anstey in the servant’s hall.”

  “Thank you.” Mariette was so used to thinking of him as Jim Groom, to distinguish him from Jim Gardener, that the name Anstey took her by surprise. She smiled at the old man. “Keep an eye out for Ragamuffin. I expect he will turn up sooner or later. I shall see you later, Mr. Anstey.”

  He shook his head at her. “Jim’ll do, like always, miss.”

  Entering the house by the back way, she recalled too late that she ought to have dismounted at the front door and let Jim take Sparrow round to the stables. She’d never be a perfect lady like Lilian, automatically doing the right thing. Did Lilian really wish her to visit? Was her invitation just politeness? Would she be dismayed when Mariette walked in to join her genteel callers?

  She was glad she had not gone in through the front door. Warned of the crowd, at least she could remove her temporary train before anyone saw the makeshift creation.

  In the back passage, she met a housemaid and asked for Jenny Pennick. The abigail was delighted to see her, and warm in her gratitude for the little ivory rose brooch. Train unpinned and hair tidied in Lilian’s dressing room, Mariette smiled as she glided down the stairs.

  Blount awaited her at the bottom. Gravely bowing, he enquired after her health as he escorted her across the hall. His impassive face softened in a pleased look when she said she had never felt better. She grew more confident of her welcome at Corycombe.

 
The butler opened the drawing room door. “Miss Bertrand,” he announced.

  “Mariette!” Emily deserted Miss Bolger and sped to hug her friend. “I have missed you so!”

  “It is only two days since I left, Emmie.” Over Emily’s head, Mariette scanned the room for Lord Malcolm.

  Though she had never seen so many people in Lilian’s drawing room, there was space for plenty more. If he had been present she could not have missed him. Perhaps he had fled on the arrival of the vicar and his wife, or the Bolgers. Of none of them was he fond, still less of Lord Wareham but he’d never turn tail and leave his sister at the baron’s mercy--unless he considered Captain Aldrich sufficient protection. The two gentlemen sat on either side of Lilian. Though Mariette’s entrance forced them to rise, it did not hinder for more than a moment their glaring daggers at each other.

  Was Lord Malcolm even now at Bell-Tor Manor? She wondered how soon it would be proper to enquire after him.

  As she curtsied to the company, Lilian rose and came to greet her. “Will you stay to luncheon?” she asked in a low voice. “I hope to rid myself of all...most of the rest before then.”

  “Thank you, I should like to.” She didn’t even need to think up an excuse to stay!

  Lilian returned to her guests, seating herself between the captain and Lady Bolger. Emily drew Mariette to a sofa at a little distance from the rest and chattered away about how Miss Thorne had taken to her bed with the sniffles. Above the girl’s voice, Mariette heard Lady Bolger’s.

  “I daresay we shall see Lord Malcolm in Town,” said the squire’s wife hopefully. “We are going up at the end of the month to order my daughter’s gowns to be made. Can you recommend a good modiste, Lady Lilian?”

  “Wasting good money on fripperies and frivolities,” snorted Sir Nesbit.

  “Such is London life,” put in Lord Wareham with a sneer. “Lord Malcolm did not long honour us with his presence in our rustic backwater. No doubt he was eager to return to the dissipations of the Fashionable World, and to visit his tailor.”

  A cold hand clutched Mariette’s heart, robbing her of breath. “Is your uncle gone?” she asked in a choked whisper.