The Honorable Marksley

by Sherry Lynn Ferguson

  She had enough money for passage to Ireland, or even perhaps to America, if she were to tap Henry Beecham’s tidy sum. Marksley had stressed to Beecham in more than one letter that the poet could claim his earnings at any bank with a signature and his letters of credit. Hallie had not needed the money; she could not have invested it and her uncle would have noticed unusual spending in any event. She had feared as well that by claiming the funds she would reveal her identity to Marksley. She had even thought of the payments as bait.

  Now she would snap at that lure. But she had devised a means to have someone else-a man-obtain her proceeds for her. She had determined to ask George.

  George Partridge had last stopped to see her three months before in Berkshire. A renowned linguist and mutual friend of hers and Jeremy’s, George had traveled widely, researching the world’s unique tongues. She believed he was now transcribing the Romany speech of the country’s gypsies, though she had no inkling as to his location. She must trust Jeremy to find their friend and deliver her message. George, she knew, would have no difficulty in copying her signature as “Henry Beecham” George could imitate any accent and any hand.

  Hallie convinced herself that George would be happy to do this small favor. She had, after all, persuaded him to send one of his articles on language to Marksley and The Tantalus. He had found an admiring audience, as she had known he would.

  She looked again at the drive. It was troubling to discover how easily she had learned to identify Richard Marksley even from a distance. Something in the set of his shoulders distinguished him from Jeremy and all others.

  She took her time collecting her things and returning them to her room. Once she had donned her pelisse and gathered a bonnet she knew she was more than acceptably late, but the recognition did not prompt her to hurry. She had so few days left, so little time; she could not bear to rush the minutes. She did not question that she thought in terms of time left with Marksley.

  Millicent Binkin met her in the foyer. Hallie had scarcely addressed a word to the woman since the disastrous intrusion at the Tewsbury inn. Yet Millicent did not seem to resent Hallie’s uncivil silence, nor to feel any regret for committing her young cousin in such a questionable manner.

  “You have certainly dawdled, missy. Although, given the sorry state of your wardrobe, one would hardly credit it. You must remind me to help you select several new day gowns. You look a proper dowd”

  “The gentlemen will hardly wish for my company, then,” Hallie said. “I shall leave you to them” She started to turn away, but Millicent grasped her arm.

  “My dear,” she said repressively, “These theatrics are childish. You must remember that all of one’s actions have consequences. Neither I nor the gentlemen outside desired this situation.”

  “And that you know to be a lie, Millicent,” Hallie retorted, chafing at the too-tight grip on her arm. “Why are you permitting this sham to continue? Why compel Richard Marksley to stand for his cousin?”

  “You were irretrievably compromised-”

  “Only in your eyes, dear cousin. You were both source and sound. You know you have much to answer for in all this. When Reginald Marksley returns you shall appear quite ridiculous.”

  “You are not usually dimwitted, Harriet. Had I believed for one moment that the Viscount would claim you, I would never have settled for Mr. Richard.”

  “You would not! Millicent, you take too much upon yourself. This is none of your affair.”

  “But it is, my dear.” And her cousin’s glance was sharp. “I have ensured an acceptable match for you. An eminently acceptable match. You were in a fair way to being overlooked. No season, no prospects. Only your endless scribblings. Now you will be established, and very well at that”

  It was unseemly, to be arguing here in the foyer, with their escorts mere feet beyond the door. Yet to have Millicent Binkin so openly confess her scheming, without regret or shame, was more than Hallie could abide.

  “We will discuss this later, Millicent,” she managed, twisting free of her cousin’s clutch. “It is outrageous that you would let all of us live this lie. I shall most certainly tell uncle”

  “But he already knows, dear,” Millicent said.

  Hallie clenched her fists. She had not known she was such a drain on her uncle’s household as to be foisted like chattel upon a stranger. She did know she was shaking, but she could not seem to stop.

  The front door opened abruptly to Richard Marksley. Hallie could feel some force in him of anger or impatience. That consciousness made her tremble all the more.

  “Ladies” Though his dark gaze revealed little, Hallie had the distinct impression that he had overheard them. “Are you ready to set out?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Marksley. We are indeed.” Millicent stalked on through the door, her short, stout figure squeezed into an unflattering patterned muslin. Hallie glanced up at Richard Marksley’s face, to find him coldly eyeing Millicent Binkin’s retreating back.

  “I believe you are unlucky in your relations,” he said, for her ears alone, and Hallie again suspected he had heard that conversation. Though he continued to look grim, he offered her his arm. “Shall we attempt once more to make the best of things?”

  “I … prefer to stay in this afternoon”

  One dark eyebrow arched.

  “Never tell me you are a coward, m’dear. Are you as averse to high-steppers and speed as I suspect your cousin to be?”

  Hallie, still shaky, let her hand seek his sleeve. She was grateful for his support. And she was grateful for something more. It pleased her to think he could share her dislike for Millicent Binkin. They were partners in that, if in nothing else.

  In the drive, Jeremy was just helping Millicent into the back of the barouche, an exercise in agility that displayed neither to graceful advantage. As only Jeremy’s horse stood saddled nearby, Hallie surmised that Richard Marksley intended to drive.

  “I thought you might choose to ride up with me,” he said. “The Earl’s team is spirited but responsive. If you are so inclined, you might like a turn at the ribbons.”

  Hallie readily agreed to sit forward with him, something she would have preferred over Millicent’s company in any event. As Marksley took her hand to help her up, Hallie felt the warmth of his own, even through their gloves. She bit her lower lip as she concentrated on her footing.

  “Miss Ashton is a remarkable hand,” Millicent supplied unbidden. “And she has been riding from the time she could walk. She is esteemed quite a horsewoman”

  “Indeed?” Marksley murmured. Millicent’s isolation in back had been intended. At the moment, Hallie wished her cousin further-somewhere near the ends of the earth.

  As Marksley took his seat beside her, Hallie realized she was holding her breath. She willed herself to breathe easily, and glanced over at Jeremy.

  “You prefer the saddle, Lord Jeremy?”

  “If I am not invited to drive, Miss Harriet. I suspect Richard would be less indulgent were I his passenger.”

  “Only too correct, Jeremy. You would have Penham’s cattle in the ditch before permitting another vehicle by you.”

  “Oh come, Richard. I am not that demonic. And the traffic out here in the country is nothing to speak of.”

  “Truly, Jeremy? And what would you call that lumbering contraption ahead of us?”

  Jeremy made play of peering at a monstrous hay cart in the lane beyond the gates.

  “Demme, if it ain’t a thatched cottage. Well, Richard, if you aim to amble along behind that all afternoon, you may drive with my blessing.” Jeremy dropped back to engage Millicent politely in some tedious twaddle about the countryside.

  The carriage easily passed the hay cart and moved beyond neatly scythed fields and the occasional pasture of sheep. The sun was bright, the afternoon unexpectedly balmy.

  Hallie, conscious that she had much to say but little inclination to speak, concentrated on watching the horses and Marksley’s capable hands on the reins. At ti
mes her attention strayed to his profile. He had wellcast features, a firm jaw, a fine nose. Though she decided he could not claim to be as gorgeous as his celebrated cousin, he had a manly refinement that was attractive. Combined with the confidence that seemed characteristic, he was a compelling gentleman. He had to be for her to find his face so intriguing.

  “Is everything in its proper place?” he asked suddenly.

  “I … certainly. Pardon me” She shivered and glanced away.

  “Are you cold, Miss Ashton?”

  “No,” she said, again turning to him. Her own gaze challenged his reversion to `Miss Ashton.’ To her irritation, he seemed all too aware of her reaction. Those eloquent lips were amused.

  “The air tends to be chill in this hollow, Miss Ashton. On many a warm summer’s day we have fog in here at noon.”

  “You frequent the spot then, Mr. Marksley?”

  “Excessively” But now he was smiling. Hallie had thought him an attractive man before; now the smile persuaded more than her thinking.

  She grasped the rail on her left and settled her reticule on her lap. She reminded herself of her strategyto talk to Richard Marksley about his Tantalus. If she were destined to betray herself, she would do so because of what she knew and might unthinkingly reveal. She was a reader; she knew his journal. How natural, then, to speak with Richard Marksley about his library and his work. She would, she thought, confuse him-to the extent that she reasonably might be assumed to know most of what Henry Beecham knew.

  “You are the editor of The Tantalus,” she ventured. The opening gambit made her feel small. “I should like to know more about your work.”

  “In the sense of how I occupy my time?”

  “Yes. I … have seen most recent numbers. You write a letter introducing each”

  “That letter is all that I do write, as I have little talent for the craft. I have prided myself, however, on selecting work of interest to readers”

  Jeremy, posting alongside, brought his horse closer. “It is a talent in itself to recognize and foster it in others, do you not think so, Miss Harriet? Indeed, Richard is supremely talented-when I think of all he has brought to the rest of us” He winked at her, which made her blush.

  Marksley frowned. “Thank you, Jeremy,” he said, but his swift look at his friend was guarded. At the look, Jeremy dropped back again to Millicent’s side.

  Hallie was grateful for Jeremy’s removal. He was an annoying reminder of her duplicity.

  “And do you approach your authors with requests for stories and criticism?”

  “They are not my authors, Miss Ashton, although there are those few upon whom I can rely. Yet to answer your question-it would be foolish for me to await material in the post. The serendipity involved in doing so would make a regular bimonthly printing quite impossible. Subscriptions are our largest source of funds, after all”

  “And the other sources?”

  He glanced quickly at her. She had forgotten that ladies did not discuss finances with gentlemen. As Henry Beecham she had never had a qualm.

  “I myself am one source, Miss Ashton. Along with the occasional gift. I am afraid The Tantalus must qualify as a gentleman’s hobby, as it rarely returns any monetary profit.”

  And now I shall use your precious money, Hallie thought, to flee you. But he must have construed her silence as criticism.

  “My hands may be stained by ink, Miss Ashton,” Marksley added, “but, as I never trouble to pay myself, I avoid the stigma of engaging in trade. Such distinctions affect the standing of an Earl’s nephew, no matter how material his more gentlemanly duties.”

  There was a tight line to his lips. Hallie would have pursued the nature of his other duties, and learned just how he felt about his aunt and uncle, but that bitter expression intimidated. Ironically, The Tantalus presented the safer subject.

  “My uncle is not a subscriber to your journal,” she said, “but I read it at the circulating library in Tewsbury. It is extraordinarily popular. I have always enjoyed the mixture of articles and stories.”

  “Thank you, Miss Harriet. And do you have a favorite? Do you prefer a story or commentary?”

  “I … have no favorites,” she said, working her shak ing fingers into the folds of her skirt. “Although I appreciate the selection of poetry”

  “Ah, yes. We have published some excellent poetry” Now at last on a clear, flat stretch of road Marksley loosened the reins, encouraging the team to a brisker pace. Hallie’s glance at Jeremy noted his relief at the change. He had surrendered in patience to Millicent’s inconsequential remarks. Now he coaxed his mount to keep pace with the carriage.

  Richard Marksley, with the team well in hand, glanced her way again. “Does a particular style of poetry appeal to you, Miss Harriet?”

  “All poetry,” she said and chanced a smile. But Marksley was no longer looking at her. His brow was furrowed.

  “Perhaps you have seen some of Henry Beecham’s poems.”

  “I am … not certain.”

  “Quite” It was a very chilly little word. Apparently engrossed in managing the team, Marksley lapsed into an extended silence.

  Hallie thought Jeremy had heard that last exchange; she thought she heard his impatient snort. Or perhaps that was from his now straining steed.

  She pointedly kept her gaze on the road ahead.

  She knew why she had declined to discuss Henry Beecham; she was wary of divulging too great a familiarity with the poet. Yet she had managed instead to sound witless. Surely her greatest protection from discovery was her sex, whether or not she claimed any knowledge of Henry Beecham. And she did not like Marksley’s silence. She did not like it at all.

  “I do recall reading something recent by Henry Beecham,” she said. “About the ocean-‘a wash of blue, sweet surge of sea, earth’s answer to eternity….’ Well, I forget the rest. But it was very nice.” This time she was certain it was Jeremy who snickered, not his horse.

  “Better than Byron, eh, Richard?” Jeremy suggested wickedly.

  Marksley, concentrating on the horses, was frowning. But Hallie sensed he was thinking of Beecham, not the team. She wondered whether Marksley published the poems merely to gratify an insatiable, indiscriminate public. Perhaps he needed only to fill his pages.

  “Did you not like it?” she asked, at once uncertain.

  “Yes, I liked it. I liked it very much indeed, confound the man.”

  Jeremy laughed.

  “What is it, Jeremy?” Marksley snapped. “Have we chanced upon some of your butterflies?”

  “Unfortunately not, my friend, although a trap of sorts has most certainly been set”

  Marksley favored Jeremy with a scowl, than looked over his shoulder at Millicent. Hallie’s cousin had managed to fall asleep, her chins nestled comfortably into her shawl.

  “Would you care for a turn at the ribbons, Miss Harriet?” he asked. “This stretch of road affords a fine, smooth run.”

  She nodded and took the reins from him, feeling at once all thumbs as his warm, gloved hands temporarily cradled her own. There may not have been butterflies about the road, she decided, but some had apparently settled along her midriff.

  “Loose them, Hattie,” Jeremy urged, and she needed no second prompting. The grays had responsive mouths and glorious, balanced strides. They flew ahead, fulfilling her own need for freedom, flashing along unchecked and powerful. She was conscious then only of the bright, encompassing afternoon light-a light that reflected from the fields and the open road and the very earth itself. The pounding of the horses’ hooves delighted her. She wanted to take in and swallow the speeding air.

  Her bonnet slid behind her, the wind bringing a sharp sting to her cheeks.

  They must have run two miles before Hallie at last pulled them up. Flushed with the flight, she restored the reins to Marksley, then attempted to resettle her bonnet atop her windblown hair.

  “Well done, Miss Hallie,” Marksley said. She considered it a victory of s
orts that he condescended to call her Hallie once again. He was examining her face with curiosity. “They were bred for speed and are not easily slowed. Who taught you to drive?”

  “My cousin Tolly. He was very good”

  “Tolliver Ashton was a splendid hand, Richard,” Jeremy said. He was out of breath as he reached them. “You’d have liked him.”

  “Undoubtedly.” But Richard Marksley was studying Hallie’s high color with an intensity she found disconcerting. She told herself it was absurd-absurd to believe the name `Henry Beecham’ might be branded upon her forehead.

  “You will … kill us … all … Harriet,” Millicent gasped from the back. “She should not … be allowed … to sport with … your team, sir.”

  “Why ever not, Miss Binkin? You yourself claimed she is a remarkable hand. Your cousin is as skilled as any man I know.”

  “She is not a man, Mr. Marksley.”

  Hallie wanted to laugh aloud. To Richard Marksley she was a man, in the person of Henry Beecham. But that unhappy grimness had settled again upon Marksley’s face. He directed the horses down a winding section of road.

  “She is not a man, Miss Binkin. And all of us are here precisely because she is not. Should you truly wish her to refrain from driving you must raise the matter with her uncle. Until he indicates otherwise, his niece-my betrothed-is welcome to handle this team. She has demonstrated her competence.”

  Hallie blessed him silently. Her eyes must have mirrored something of her pleasure in rebellion because Richard Marksley lent her a smile.

  They discussed books. While Millicent settled, sulking, in back and Jeremy amused himself with enthusiastically pronouncing on every humble roadside weed, they discussed what Hallie had most recently read and intended to read. In such conversation she found little reason for subterfuge; there seemed small likelihood that one’s reading might reveal clues of too singular a nature. If Marksley sometimes met her gaze with a puzzled one of his own, Hallie attributed it to the usual amazement that a woman might appreciate more than the fashion plates.