The Honorable Marksley

by Sherry Lynn Ferguson

  Hallie glanced at the neatly ordered pages. She felt the suggestion as a rebuke. That their correspondence had come to this! She had trapped herself in her own creation. And she could not review the sheets. She knew their lying contents by heart.

  She was not left to herself for the rest of the day. She managed to win ten minutes on the terrace only by consenting to dress as though for a blizzard, and, as she walked slowly across the worn brick, she could see someone at the door every time she glanced toward the house. Hallie pointedly kept her gaze on the garden.

  Winter, in its impatience, had sighed upon the trees and flowerbeds. The lingering warmth and color of three days before had fled even from the late blooming asters, and though the beeches hoarded their faded copper foliage, many other trees had lost their leaves. In the slightest of breezes, those still clinging to branches voiced a rustling protest.

  Hallie had always loved autumn with its preparation and tranquil progression. But this year the season’s melancholy affected her adversely. She had loved fall when she had supposed spring, and now she would not be continuing as she had been. Her life as a poet, whether Henry Beecham were revealed or not, would never be the same. She must say goodbye to the ways that had sustained her, with no assurance of what was to follow. And even though she might perform as she ought, act as she ought, her heart was not ready for bold new adventures.

  `Love is a durable fire,’ she recalled, and sought solace in Marksley’s library. The volumes contained wisdom and direction, but could not serve as her proxies.

  Marksley did not return in time to join her for dinner.

  “He’s up at the Hall,” Mrs. Hepple told her, “making arrangements” She frowned. “Though ‘tis not like the master-Lord Langsford-to keep his doings so close. The housekeeper as is over there told Pickens, that’s the head gardener, brother of our Thomas, that though the rooms are being aired, nothing else has been readied.”

  Hallie, who had no concept of how such a gathering was to be planned, merely shrugged. “Perhaps the Viscount is inviting so many people from London that he has found it necessary to lodge his visitors elsewhere”

  Mrs. Hepple shook her head. “‘Twould not be necessary, milady. Not at Penham” She continued to frown. “No invitations have been sent to the post”

  That did puzzle Hallie, since Marksley had implied the event would be soon.

  “Lord Langsford may be delaying until he feels I am better,” she suggested.

  Mrs. Hepple’s frown fled. “And that does sound just like him, milady. Ever since he was a boy, he was that considerate of others”

  He had certainly been considerate of her. How comfortable it would be-how cowardly it would besimply to let George continue as Beecham, to hide here with Marksley and have him learn to care for her. It was a most seductive thought. But the risk in choosing to do nothing was comparably great. To the extent he cared for her now, he might never care for her again, for no one appreciated being fooled.

  She sought relief in sleep, however restless, and in the morning, heavy-eyed, again made her way down to breakfast, this time negotiating the steps with little difficulty. Her body was much improved, yet her mind was far from easy.

  She must send her letter to George.

  Marksley was seated at the table when she entered the dining room. He rose and bowed as she moved toward him.

  “I trust you are feeling much better this morning, Hallie?”

  “I am, thank you” For some reason she could not fathom, she vividly recalled how he had slid his arm about her shoulders to give her a drink of water. Coloring, she looked toward the buffet. All she really wanted was another sip of water-served just the same way.

  “I should just like some toast this morning please, Gibbs,” she said as she walked to a chair. Marksley was there before her, to pull it out for her before Gibbs could reach it. Even having him that close caused her breath to catch in her throat.

  As she sat down she sensed him behind her, sensed that he stared at the back of her head, thought that perhaps he even leaned toward her. She could feel his breath tease her hair and willed his lips to seek her nape. He was that close. But he returned to his seat.

  “It is no longer the size of a melon,” he remarked with satisfaction. He took a sip of tea and watched her face.

  “Pray sir,” Hallie said, trying to control her unreasoning disappointment. “Which fruit or vegetable does my skull now resemble?”

  “Your skull, my dear, is as attractively shaped as a skull may be. I would estimate your injury, however, to be the size of a squashed plum. ‘Twas a flat iron pan that hit you, after all. Had your head not been as hard as it has proved to be, you might not have been breakfasting with me now.” For a moment, his gaze was very direct and serious.

  “I descend from a long line of hard heads, my lord,” Hallie offered. “Notorious for their fortitude.” And for their stupidity, she added silently.

  Marksley raised a brow. “I trust the trait has rarely been tested so severely.”

  “Only in the abstract,” she said lightly. For an instant their glances locked, in communication that was strangely paralyzing. Then he turned his attention to the stacked letters at his side.

  Hallie drank her tea and listened to the rustling of pages from Marksley’s reading. The silence was companionable enough, yet she found herself waiting for something-something more, certainly, than the plate of toast Gibbs delivered to her.

  She set about methodically buttering the hot squares.

  Though he held a letter in his hands, Marksley observed the practice, and her, with an amiable smile, before he cleared his throat.

  “My dear Beecham-” At once Hallie’s knife stilled. “Forgive me, I mean George Partridge-writes that he is looking forward to this evening’s event”

  “This evening?”

  “Yes, I believe we have waited long enough” Marksley placed the letter to the side before looking up at her. “If you are feeling quite the thing?”

  “I … I am well.”

  “I see no reason for delay” Marksley sat back in his chair and steepled his hands before him. “Several important guests are housed already at Penham. And many of those who most closely follow The Tantalus and literary matters will be leaving London this morning. If you would prefer not to join us tonight, Hallie, there would be opportunity enough over the next two days to make the acquaintance of Beecham’s admirers”

  “Well, it is a bit sudden-”

  “Sudden? I shouldn’t think so. The man has been eluding us for more than a year. Hiding and feinting and slipping away. No, the fox has finally been run to ground. And the hounds must have their triumph.” He observed Hallie’s involuntary wince and smiled encouragement. “Do not worry, my dear. This is his triumph as well. ‘Tis his craft everyone would celebrate after all, and our shy versifier willingly agreed to attend.”

  Marksley picked up the letter he had been reading and waved it at her, as though demonstrating the proof of his words. Hallie wondered how George, even as gifted as he was, had managed to copy her script for an entire letter. But she recalled that he would have had her own letter to use as a model. He could have done it, but why would he? She would never have believed him capable of such a ruse, even to protect her interests.

  “Have you had a chance … to read his work?” Marksley asked.

  The soft question pinned her like one of Jeremy’s fragile specimens. Her lips parted, but no words came. He seemed so convinced, so content with George as Beecham.

  Marksley watched her.

  “I see I was too forward in assigning you reading while you are still recovering. But I do hope you will accompany me, my Lady Langsford,” Marskley persisted, “or is your frown answer in itself?”

  “I fear I have nothing appropriate to wear to so grand an occasion.”

  “Nonsense. I have seen to it that the dress you selected for our wedding has been finished just as you chose. Would you not appreciate the opportunity to wear it? I s
hould like to see you in it.”

  “But … we are in mourning-”

  “You are still a bride.”

  Hallie could not look him in the eye. “I have no experience … London society is-”

  “No worse than one of Augusta Lawes’s suppers,” he said, then sighed. “Granted, that can be trying enough, but you have proved yourself more than capable.” He fixed her with an inquiring gaze. “Would you not like to see Beecham, your friend George, again?”

  “Will he not stay with us?”

  For a moment, Marksley looked uncertain. “I have hopes he might. But it seems unlikely. He has made no promises.”

  No promises! She had made bold promises indeed. But she was promising to break them.

  “You are frowning again, Hallie. Have you … something to say?”

  Her imagination lent urgency to his tone.

  “I … should like to join you this evening.”

  “Splendid,” he said, though his smile seemed forced. “I am delighted. `Twould be nothing without you, my dear. Although I recommend you rest this afternoon.” He rose from the table and gathered his correspondence. “Please excuse me for now. Perhaps I shall see you for tea later?”

  He paused by her chair and took her right hand in his. His warm palm swallowed her fingers as he raised them to his lips. Only the faintest caress skimmed her knuckles, but it was enough to make her tremble.

  She sat very still for a minute after he had left. Her tea cooled, her toast cooled, but her mind and heart were afire. And Marksley, for all his civility and excuses regarding his pressing correspondence, was clearly avoiding her. She was not imagining his distance. Why was he now so impatient of her company? It had been easier to understand his disdain.

  She had wondered if he might learn to love her, if she might build upon the same qualities of empathy and understanding that had sustained their correspondence. But now, it seemed, something about her person was not to his liking.

  He did not join her at all during the day, and Hallie was too embarrassed to ask Gibbs where her husband might be. She spent the time in her rooms, submitting to a last fitting of her dress and sleeping when she could no longer read. By four, when she had a light tea, preparatory to bathing and dressing, she was both more rested and more anxious. The evening promised to be awkward, to say the least. She would have to find and speak to George before Marksley made any announcement. And even at this late hour she had not decided what to say or to whom. They might all assume her head injury had caused delusions.

  Tolly would have been ashamed of her.

  Mary enthused over the dress, a gossamer creation of ivory silk and lace. Mrs. Hepple smiled her approval, even Gibbs granted Hallie a grin as she entered the front hall. Only her husband surveyed her with apparent indifference.

  “Suits you then, does it?” he asked at last.

  “As you see, my lord. ‘Tis hardly sackcloth”

  “True enough. Though you would grace even sackcloth, my lady. Shall we go?”

  As discomposed by the compliment as by its earlier absence, Hallie nodded her agreement and took his arm. Outside, the groom held the horses harnessed to the Penham carriage. The driver gaily tipped his hat to her.

  Marksley helped her to a seat, covered her lap with a blanket, then took the bench opposite. He tapped the roof of the carriage. With an easy, concerted surge the horses pulled forward.

  They traveled in silence through the dusk. With occasional glances Hallie observed Marksley’s fine formal clothing, the thoughtful set of his features. Tonight, she imagined, he himself might have been called “The Gorgeous Langsford” But after some time, she determined he did not look excited.

  “You do not appear to be anticipating this … Richard.” When he glanced rather sharply at her she wondered why the observation annoyed him. “Or perhaps I assume too much”

  “No, you are quite correct” The attempt at a smile made his too serious demeanor all that much more noticeable. “I am not anticipating much of anything. The discovery has been made, has it not?” As Hallie shrank a bit into her corner, he added, “This evening is a beginning, certainly. For Beecham and, perhaps, for myself. Yet, in the best poetic tradition, I am aware as well of what is ending.”

  She considered his words as she glanced out the window at the deepening darkness. The bare branches of trees were stark against the sky.

  “In each moment the moment past,” she agreed softly. At his silence she turned to meet his stare. His expression was most peculiar. In the dim light, he looked as though he were in pain.

  “Richard,” she leaned towards him, “what is wrong?”

  The carriage lurched, propelling her forward against the squabs. She felt for a second as though her neck had snapped from her shoulders. As she collected her wits, she realized Marksley had grasped her arms and still held her firmly.

  “Are you injured?” he asked quickly.

  When she shook her head, he released her to rap sharply on the carriage roof. “Peters, whatever is the matter?”

  “Lamed, he is, my lord,” came the gruff reply from the front. “Must be a stone. Pulled up right sudden” The carriage rocked gently as Peters climbed down.

  “Pardon me, my dear.” Marksley rose to follow the driver to the ground. Hallie heard a few angry words, then the murmur of conversation and the sound of horses being released from their harnesses. Marksley came back to look at her through the open door.

  “Peters will ride back for another leader,” he told her, “but I fear we will be delayed here for a little while. We have the good fortune, however, of being only a few steps from Haskell’s mill.”

  Hallie, glancing quickly at her beautiful new gown, hesitated to test it in the neglected building.

  “The mill is … rather dusty, Richard-”

  “No longer. After finding it in such a sorry state, I ordered it cleaned and repaired. Come … help me inspect it.”

  He lifted her lightly from the carriage, then collected one of the lanterns from the side of the door. Hallie stepped carefully beside him. Her soft slippers had been fashioned for ballrooms, not country walks. The path was uneven, littered with small stones. But once they reached the door to the mill she noticed immediately the improvements Marksley had claimed. The floor had been swept and scrubbed, shutters hung true on their hinges, a glazier had carefully replaced every broken pane. No sign of a cobweb was to be seen. Oddly, a fire blazed at the front parlor’s wide stone hearth.

  “You are as good as your word, my lord. You have set the place to rights. You might almost host your elegant soiree in such a spot.”

  “How curious that you should think so” Marksley moved closer to her and reached to light another lantern on the table. “Most curious indeed. Because I intend to do just that”

  Until that moment, it had not occurred to her that Haskell’s mill was not on the road to Penham. As she looked her bewilderment, he smiled, but did not explain.

  “Puzzling, is it not?” he asked instead. “I seem to have devilishly bad luck on this stretch of road”

  “It is … simply coincidence.” Hallie found it difficult not to stare at him, he looked so very handsome in the warm lamplight. And she recalled too vividly what had almost happened at the mill.

  “I believe you will find the place comfortable enough now, my dear, which will suit my purposes admirably. We have some weighty matters to discuss.”

  “But your plans for the evening. We are expected-”

  “I expect only one person, and he,” Marksley’s glance moved beyond her to the front door, “is here. Welcome, Henry Beecham,” he said with a smile. “Do come meet my wife.” And Hallie wheeled to face the entrance.

  Even as she swayed, Marksley clasped her shoulders, holding her loosely but securely from behind.

  “Yes, Harriet Ashton Marksley.” The urgent words tickled her cheek. “You of the dove-gray eyes and capricious butterflies. This must end” His fingers tightened briefly before he released her. />
  Hallie turned slowly to face him. She could still sense his touch, though he had no hold upon her.

  “How long have you known?” she asked.

  “Since your illness.”

  “George Partridge told you?”

  “George said nothing. I … read your journal” At her gasp, he opened his palms to her. “An unforgivable act, granted,” he said, “but I was beyond patience. You must admit your own trespasses are considerable. And I would have my little revenge. It may gratify you to know, though, how very empty it feels”

  “There is no soiree,” she said slowly, reading his gaze. “There are no guests from London” When Marksley could not stop a small smile, she dared to feel angry. “Why here?” She indicated the empty room.

  “I have fond memories of the place.” He glanced briefly at her lips, then leaned closer. “And you chose to leave this matter so late. Here there will be no interruptions. No gypsy boys, no lepidopterists, no bullying uncles, or insufferable Archies. No acts, I pray, of God” He added softly, “My dear Beecham, your little game is over.”

  “‘Twas never a game, my lord. ‘Twas life for me. And I never meant for it to continue this long.”

  “You are not helpless, Hallie. You might have told me at any time.”

  “I did try”

  “And what prevented you?”

  Her lips rose. “Gypsy boys, insufferable Archies-” But he was not smiling back at her. “I see I must tell you the whole.”

  “I would be most grateful” The comment was in the nature of a plea.

  She turned from his too-open gaze.

  “I … have told you about my cousin, about Tolliver. He was a dear brother to me, like a family in just the one. Tolly had always enjoyed my `verses’ as he called them; he wrote me from the Peninsula that he had even read some to his company. He claimed they were much appreciated, but I thought little of it until after-until after he died.

  “Jeremy was with Tolly in France, and he sought me out afterward to tell me … about how it had happened. About those last days. I needed to know. He had heard Tolly read from my letters. Jeremy witnessed my circumstances with uncle and he wanted to help. He encouraged me to submit my poems to The Tantalus, suggesting you would be pleased to publish them. Jeremy said … you would consider only the quality of the poems”