by Allison Lane
Jack had thought of little else since meeting Marianne that morning. Something was very wrong. A harridan like Lady Barnett might easily banish an unwanted niece, but why had Lord Barnett failed to provide a governess and companion? And the park showed few signs of maintenance – overgrown woods, a folly in desperate need of repairs, weeds choking a third of the lake… Where did the estate income go? Dorset was a prosperous county. She should have flocks at least as large as his own.
Poole shook his head. “The estate is currently owned by a Miss Barnett, the last surviving member of her family. I know few details, for she took possession before my time.”
“The entire family is gone?”
Poole nodded.
“What happened?”
“Plague. Not here, you understand,” he added quickly. “They were in some foreign place. Only the daughter survived, but that is all we know, for she refuses all callers. Anyone approaching is turned away at the gate.”
“And people don’t find that strange?”
“Not particularly. She’s mad. Her guardian keeps her here so society doesn’t learn of her affliction. Putting her in an asylum might draw attention to her state.”
“Since everyone knows about it anyway, how does it serve him?” Jack snapped, instincts again aroused. He’d seen enough madmen to know that Marianne was not mad. A trifle untutored, perhaps, at least in the ways of the world, but she was sharp-witted and harbored an amazing store of knowledge. They had discussed her plans for when her trust ended. No madwoman would care about bettering the lives of her tenants or improving her estate.
“No one actually knows for certain,” admitted Poole. “Madness is the most likely explanation for her seclusion.” That Halworth’s servants refuse to discuss her confirms that something is amiss. But we have no noblemen living nearby, so I doubt news of her leaves the area. Mr. Barnett was a scholarly younger son who married a vicar’s daughter. Neither of them visited London, and I’ve heard no tales that they frequented Bath, either.”
“Why do the villagers discuss the Barnetts with you?” asked Jack.
“They don’t. I occasionally overhear comments when the Halworth butler or housekeeper appears, but most of my information comes from Halworth’s steward. Crane is a friend – we accepted our positions at the same time. In ten years, he has never spoken to Miss Barnett.”
“Who does he answer to, then?”
“The London banker who hired him.”
Jack turned his questions to other neighbors, area villages, and the nearest market town, but his thoughts remained on Marianne.
Her situation was worse than he’d feared. She’d been imprisoned at Halworth for twelve years, denied her rightful place in society, and forbidden the supervision that every young lady required. Seclusion alone could fracture some people’s reason.
But not hers. She was as sane as he – possibly saner – erudite, intelligent, levelheaded, and capable in an emergency. Granted, she remained solemn, but if she never met people, that was no surprise.
Barnett had much for which to answer. He had taken charge of a grieving child, refused her any comfort, then banished her to a life of solitude. It was obvious that no one had cared a whit for her. Barnett had made no attempt to prepare her for entrance into society.
Such dishonor made Jack’s blood boil.
But Marianne knew that Barnett had denied her a normal life, which was why she’d asked for help. Their morning walk had convinced him that she lacked confidence – understandable under the circumstances. Years of Barnett’s manipulation had left her emotionally fragile.
But despite everything, she retained the core of strength that had helped her survive hardship and terror in France. He had seen it on the cliffs when she’d refused to let him fall. It had underlain her request for help. And how else had she prospered despite isolation?
So he had to help her. He had accepted responsibility for her welfare twelve years ago, and nothing had changed. He must rebuild her confidence and investigate Barnett. The man was no fit guardian.
* * * *
Jack set his plans in motion the following morning, dispatching his batman Jones to Essex to learn what he could about the viscount. Then he limped toward the cliff.
For the first time in months he’d slept deeply and dreamlessly, awakening refreshed and eager to face the day. His body tightened in anticipation as he broke from the trees.
She wasn’t there.
Cursing, he forced his leg toward the lake, where he found her in the folly, sketching. The tip of her tongue protruded as she worked.
“Good morning,” he called.
Her eyes brightened when she spotted him. “Exercising your leg?”
He nodded. “I can’t yet sit a horse for more than five minutes, so I must walk.”
She set aside her sketchbook. “What do the surgeons say about your recovery?”
“Nothing to the point.” He turned the subject, for his purpose was to learn more about her situation. Was the house as derelict as this folly? “The library at Seacliff contains little beyond sermons,” he began, hoping to extract an invitation. “Could I borrow some of your books on estate management? That is not a subject I’ve needed in the past, but now that I own an estate, I should learn enough to tell whether the steward is doing his job.”
“An excellent notion. I can bring you a volume or two tomorrow.”
He agreed, though her reluctance to invite him to the house bothered him. Perhaps she was more relaxed outdoors, where standards of behavior were less rigid than in a drawing room. But if she dared not let her staff see him, he could not approach them for information. Dropping his probing for the moment, he resumed yesterday’s discourse on Spanish customs and how they contrasted with those of Portugal.
That marked the beginning of the oddest friendship of Jack’s life. He met Marianne every morning, rain or shine. Their conversation ranged from estate management to politics to Roman history, Greek drama, and the latest scientific experiments. She rarely discussed herself. Personal inquiries drew vague replies followed by probing questions about his family or friends or military life. Since he was loath to discuss his own past, he could hardly press for hers.
His frustration grew day by day, for she balked at trying any of the things that might build her confidence. Conversation was all very well, but she needed to meet people. Yet she categorically refused to accompany him to the village.
As the weeks progressed, he admitted that his initial assessment had been incomplete. Lack of confidence was not her only problem. Learning at an early age how quickly life could change made her determined to enjoy every moment to its fullest. It might also explain why she avoided people and had never pressed for a Season. Marriage and children created attachments that would leave her vulnerable to new pain.
Yet that theory also had flaws. Her reluctance seemed more visceral than fear of future pain. Despite her enjoyment of the many small pleasures they found on their daily rambles, she never smiled. Not even when his limp disappeared.
She was obsessed with his leg, determined to see it whole again. To that end, she devised exercises to strengthen the muscles, massaged it to relieve cramps and stiffness, and marched him over miles of rugged terrain to improve its flexibility. Wellington could have used her on the Peninsula, for nothing deterred her from her self-imposed duty.
He cared little for the leg and feared that his bad blood might act on the lust her massage incited. But her pleasure at each improvement lightened the somber expression in her eyes, so he cooperated. She was the most unselfish lady of his acquaintance – quite an accolade, for his friend Lady Blackthorn was hailed as an angel by all who knew her. Marianne was even more giving.
But when nightmares jerked him from sleep, he cursed her regimen, for his improved condition would make it harder to stage a believable accident. And if word of his recovery reached Wellington, he would have to report for duty or resign – an impossible choice. Returning would disgrace his uni
form. Yet resigning would bring Hooky storming to Seacliff to see what was wrong. The duke hated malingering – Fitzroy had returned to duty a fortnight after losing an arm – so Wellington would demand an explanation, probing until he found the truth. Jack couldn’t face him.
Worse, he was beginning to crave Marianne’s company. Not just the conversation, which stimulated his mind. But Marianne herself drew him. Her voice eased his despair. He yearned for her warmth, counting the hours until their next meeting. Even in sleep, she was with him, twice blocking his nightmares to bring him peace.
He cursed his need, for it served no purpose. She was no light-skirt, and he could never wed. His bad blood was too powerful to risk passing it to a new generation. Unless Wilcox had produced a child no one knew about – not impossible, for no one had heard from him in years – the Caldwell line would end with Jack.
But not yet. He still didn’t understand Marianne’s situation. She wasn’t talking, and Jones had learned nothing useful.
Marianne glanced up when Jack joined her in the folly. “Did you finish reviewing Seacliff’s books?” The calendar had ticked over to October, bringing a crisp chill to the morning air that brightened the autumn trees. Orange, red, and gold leaves already skittered over the grass. Soon it would be too cold to meet outdoors.
But soon he would leave. With his limp healed, he was as good as new, at least in body. She knew he could not postpone his return to duty much longer.
That terrified her, for he was far from healed in mind. As clearly as if he’d confessed, she knew he still intended to kill himself. Only his promise to help her had stayed his hand thus far.
The admission choked her. Despite a month of daily meetings, she had learned nothing about the cause of his melancholy. He refused to speak of his family, his regiment, or any future plans, living only in the moment. Whenever she raised those topics, he turned the subject to her life, asking questions that proved he saw more deeply than she wanted. But perhaps answering him would draw him further into the sunlight – if it didn’t drive him away.
Yet she shied away from pressing him, for there was much she didn’t understand. His regret sometimes slipped into an odd yearning that incited restless feelings in her stomach. Never before had such sensations assailed her. She could neither identify them nor discuss them. He always blanked his eyes when he noticed her interest.
Jack handed her the book he’d borrowed on estate management, then settled onto the opposite bench. “Thank you. That made it easier to follow the ledgers. I’m fortunate to have Poole. He’s done wonders despite my uncle’s parsimony, though he claims we need new rams to strengthen the breeding stock.”
“Undoubtedly. Inbreeding exaggerates any weakness. New blood dilutes problems and can even eliminate them. When was it last done?”
“Fifteen years ago.” He shrugged. “My great-uncle lived in London and saw no reason to invest much in an estate that had run well for centuries.”
“You are definitely lucky to have Poole, then. How do your tenants fare? Too many men support debauched lives by placing onerous burdens on their dependents.”
“They are fine. My uncle wasn’t greedy. He insisted that all necessary repairs be done, and he was as concerned as anyone when disease struck the flocks. But he saw no reason to change methods that worked. He wasn’t a bad manager, just set in his ways.”
She accepted the opening. “I know the sort well. My trustees are the same.”
Jack nearly jumped, for it was the first time she had mentioned her trust in weeks. “Your estate produces well according to Poole – he and Crane are friends.”
“Probably because they both had to deal with absent, conservative employers. I’ve amassed a list of innovations I want to try when I assume control. I just hope Crane is receptive to modern ideas. I’ve never met the man.”
“Why not discuss it with him now?” He held his breath, hoping she would answer.
She hesitated. “It is not that easy,” she finally said. “The gatekeepers won’t allow him into the park, and I cannot leave.”
He could think of nothing to say. Despite his growing suspicions, hearing confirmation that she was a prisoner was a shock. “If no one is allowed in or out, why am I here every day?”
“I suppose I should explain, though I’ve enjoyed our talks too much to wish to jeopardize them.” Turning her back, she leaned against one of the entrance columns and stared across the lake. “You already know that I cannot tolerate strangers – a legacy of that trip to France. But the truth is somewhat harsher than mere intolerance. A host of things drive me to hysteria – strange faces, physical contact, horses, stables… Initially my uncle provided gatekeepers so I could grieve in private. Now they remain so no one discovers that I am mad.”
“Poppycock!” He surged to his feet. “You are no more mad than I am. How can you believe such tripe? The only thing the gatekeepers have accomplished is to perpetuate the myth of your madness by preventing anyone from learning the truth.”
“You do not know me, Colonel Caldwell.”
He grimaced at the address. “I know you better than I know all but a few close friends.”
“No.” Inhaling deeply, she turned to face him. “You can’t have been listening, Jack. I cannot abide strangers. That is bad enough, but I cannot abide family, either. I freeze if anyone approaches. I fall into screaming fits at the least touch. Trying to converse drives me to tears. Even people I’ve known for years trigger mad episodes merely by appearing on my doorstep. Often the fits last so long that I lose large chunks of a day from memory. I keep telling myself that I am sane, but in truth, everyone believes me mad.”
“This is the first time I’ve seen anything that raises questions about your sanity, Marianne.” He gripped her by the shoulders. “For God’s sake, listen to yourself. You cannot tolerate people. What am I? A dog? We spend hours together every day, yet you never show by word or deed that you find my company unpleasant.”
“You are different. Safe. I know you would never harm me.”
“Then you don’t know me. I’m a warrior, Marianne. I’ve killed. I’ve maimed. I’ve done things that would make your blood curdle. I can’t even claim honor, for even I can’t live with some of my deeds.”
She blanched, but instead of pulling away, she cupped one hand against his cheek. “Oh, Jack.” Tears glistened in her eyes.
He wanted to pull her against him and savor her warmth, but this wasn’t the time. It was more important to keep her talking, for he was finally making progress. “Think, Marianne. I’ve touched you countless times in the last month. I’m holding you right now. You’ve leaned on me more than once and always take my arm when we are walking. Yet I’ve seen no evidence of fits.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me about it.” He led her back to the bench, then resumed his own seat to keep his libido under control – today’s cloak hid her lack of stays, but he knew all too well what lay beneath.
“It began in France,” she said slowly. “At first I was too numb to do anything but follow wherever Francine led.”
“Who is Francine?”
“Mama’s maid. You knew her as Clarisse. I’m surprised that she did not reveal her name once we were safely back in England.”
“But why change her name when she was so obviously French? Did she fear being connected to your family?”
“No, to her own. Her father was the Comte Dubois. He was killed during the Terror. The rest of the family barely escaped with their lives. Francine never forgot that flight and swore that aristos remained unsafe in the countryside despite Napoleon’s overtures to the émigrés.” She drew in a deep breath, twisting her hands in her lap. “We would never have reached the Channel if not for your help. Francine didn’t know where we were – she’d been seven when they fled. I was too numb to spot danger. I suppose that is why you seem so safe now. You helped us when it would have been easier to look the other way, yet you demanded nothing in return.”
“Not true.” Jack couldn’t let her turn him into a hero – not with his breeding. “I would not have made it to the Channel myself if not for Cla-Francine. No Frenchman would ever mistake my accent. If she had not done all the talking, we would have been arrested.”
“Then I needn’t apologize for endangering your life.” A spark of humor danced briefly in her eyes. “I remember little of that trip. Fog encased my mind until we reached Barnett Court. When it dissipated, I was surrounded by people I’d never met.”
“But they were family!”
Her head shook. “Lord Barnett was Papa’s brother, but he and Papa were estranged. I had never seen the house or anyone in it. When I realized that even Francine was gone, the screams I’d kept inside escaped. Laudanum finally put me to sleep, but that was the only prolonged sleep I managed for weeks. Every time I closed my eyes, nightmares jerked me awake. My screams disturbed the entire household – and it was a huge house. Lady Barnett demanded that I control my outbursts, but I couldn’t. The day I attacked one of my cousins, Lady Barnett moved me to an unused wing to protect her family.”
“My God. But where was your uncle?”
“At Halworth, settling Papa’s affairs. Once he learned how disturbed I was, he brought me here, hoping I would heal faster in familiar surroundings. He posted gatekeepers so I would not have to deal with condolence calls or curious neighbors. It helped, to a degree. I slept better in my own bed, and no one bothered me during the day. But the problem remains. I cannot tolerate people. Whenever someone calls, I fall apart.”
“I thought the gatekeepers turned away callers.”
“Not those sent by Barnett. At first, he came himself, but now he sends his secretary. Despite seeing Mr. Craven dozens of times, I still cannot endure him. He looms over me in the most threatening fashion, and a simple touch is enough to trigger a fit that sends him fleeing for his life.”
