Never until now had she lost hope of somehow gaining her husband’s affections. The carriage lurched and swayed and the wind howled and screamed.
“I hope we crash,” thought Margery wretchedly. “I wish I were dead.”
As if in answer to her prayer, there came a great cry from the roof of the coach, a sound of splintering wood, and she was thrown across the carriage on top of Toby as the whole carriage overturned on its side.
She wriggled away from him and tried to stand up. Her hands had been tied loosely behind her and she found that with the tremendous jolt they had worked free. She unloosened her gag and relieved her feelings with a spate of unmaidenly language culled from the hunting field. There was no reply. The free door of the carriage was now above her, and it suddenly swung open and a footman’s white and anxious face peered in.
“Mr. Sanderson?” queried the servant. “We’re in the ditch, sir. John coachman said you made him take the road too fast and it’s snowing mortal hard. Mr. Sanderson?”
Silence.
“A pox on Mr. Sanderson,” snapped Lady Margery. “Get me out of this directly or you’ll hang at Tyburn for this night’s work.”
The servant went even whiter at the familiar note of authority in her voice. This was no doxy, as his master had led him to believe. Babbling apologies and pleas for forgiveness, he pulled her out of the carriage and lifted her down to the waiting arms of a groom who was standing in the ditch.
One carriage lamp was still miraculously burning, and in its flickering light Margery saw nothing but white desolation.
Villain or not, Toby must be saved. “Get your master out,” she snapped. The small body of servants huddled round her. All appeared to be unhurt.
Margery turned her attention to the postilions. “Ride ahead and find the nearest inn and fetch help,” she cried above the storm. “Tell them to prepare a bedchamber for your master and send someone to find a doctor.”
The postilions relit their torches and rode off into the storm.
A faint groan was heard from the carriage. Margery stood numbly, with her torn cloak wrapped tightly about her, as Toby was dragged into view. He was very white and there was blood pouring down his face.
The servants pulled bearskin rugs out from the carriage and Margery wrapped herself in one, grateful for its shaggy warmth, and stood in the lee of the carriage. Toby’s words seemed to be burned into her brain: “Said you was any man’s for the asking.”
Toby had collapsed once more into unconsciousness and Margery stared down at his prone form without pity. Perhaps she would feel sorry for him later, but now all she felt was a bitter hatred for this clumsy oaf who had mauled her and torn her clothes.
After what seemed an age, the storm abated a little and she could see the flickering light of the postilions’ torches through the snow.
“Please, mum,” said the first, pulling his forelock. “There’s a posting inn, the George and Dragon, a ways down the road. The landlord’s a surly cove and won’t take out a carriage on a night like this for anybody. If you can ride, mum, you can take my ’orse and Jim and me”—he waved towards the other postilion—“will follow with the carriage horses and try to get Maister across the back o’ one of ’em.”
He dismounted from his horse as Margery nodded her head, and then threw her up into the saddle. The horse reared and curvetted, but she quickly brought it under control, glad there was no one else to see her but the servants as she galloped off astride the great beast, with her torn skirts hitched up above the knee.
It was only after a mile or so, when she saw the welcoming lights of the inn, that she realized it would have been better to have taken at least one servant with her, for appearance’s sake. Tiny stinging pellets of snow whipped against her face and she realized with surprise that she was crying. She clumsily wiped the tears from her face with her sleeve and jumped down nimbly from the horse.
“Take this horse to the stables and rub it down,” she called to the ostler, throwing him the reins.
The ostler grinned at her insolently, and she flushed with embarrassment as she realized her skirts were still hitched up. With frozen hands she tugged them back to a respectable length.
She turned her back on him and strode into the inn. It was expensively appointed and a cheerful fire crackled in the hall. She moved over to warm herself at it and then became aware that someone was staring at her. She swung round to face the landlord.
He was a fat, white man of immense girth, and with small piggy eyes, which were at the moment raking Margery up and down from her disheveled hair to the muddy wreck of her slippers.
Margery raised her eyebrows. “Arrange my room, sirrah!” she said coldly, “and then take yourself about your business.”
The landlord fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced a goose quill and proceeded to clean his teeth in insolent silence.
“Speak, dog,” said Margery, bristling like a small terrier.
“Ho, dog, is it?” said the landlord in a slow, plummy voice, “I’d rather be a dog than a doxy.” He moved closer to her, grinning.
Margery’s cloak fell open and a fine sapphire necklace, bought with her husband’s generous allowance, blazed on her neck in the firelight.
The smile was wiped from the landlord’s face. He paused, looking at the necklace as if hypnotized.
“And how dare you speak to me in those terms,” said Margery. “I, sir, am the Marchioness of Edgecombe.”
The smile was back on the landlord’s face. “More like her ladyship’s maid a-runnin’ away with ’er jools,” he said with a fat laugh.
A cold blast of wind heralded the arrival of another traveler. The landlord turned round, and immediately his fat face creased itself into obsequious smiles. He knew the quality when he saw it. The handsome, high-nosed stranger who was standing on the threshold was wearing a many-caped drab coat, gleaming Hessians, and a curly-brimmed beaver perched at a rakish angle on his thick tawny hair.
“And what,” said Charles, Marquess of Edgecombe, “is my wife doing standing there unattended?”
The landlord goggled and a blush of dismay colored his face. “How was I to know?” he bleated. “How—”
“Cease your cackling, you fat whoreson,” rapped the marquess. “A bedchamber for my lady and a private parlor. I also need accommodation for my friends.”
Feeling faint and dizzy, Margery was aware that Amelia and Freddie had appeared behind the marquess. Amelia wrapped her motherly arms round her shivering niece.
“Come away, my dear,” she said gently, as if talking to a hurt child. “There, my dear. There. Aunt Amelia is here and everything is going to be all right.”
The marquess half reached out his hand to his wife as she left the room. But she shrank against Amelia and refused to look at him.
There was a further commotion in the doorway as Toby was carried in by the two ostlers. One of them recognized the marquess. “Maister will be all right, my lord,” he said. “’Tis only a blow to the head.”
“Good,” said the marquess grimly. “I am glad your master will live to give me the satisfaction I crave.” Then he turned his back as Toby was carried abovestairs.
“Wasn’t his fault,” said Freddie as the marquess shrugged himself out of his coat. “It was yours.”
The marquess’s eyes narrowed. “Are you anxious to depart this world as well?” he asked in a deceptively mild voice.
“Pretty anxious,” said Freddie gloomily. “Oh, stop looking daggers at me, Charles, and sit down. Hey, you! Landlord! Show us to that demned private parlor and bring the makings of a punch. I will need rum and arrack and… oh… cinnamon and lemons and hot water and cloves and—”
“I think that will do,” remarked the marquess. “Go to it, man. Bustle about.”
They followed the bowing and cringing landlord, who was still incoherently trying to apologize for his behavior to my lady, to the upper floor. The low-ceilinged parlor was cozy and warm, with thickly lined ch
intz curtains to keep out the winter drafts and a great fire roaring up the chimney. Both sat on either side of the fire in silence as the old inn rocked and heaved in the grasp of the storm and the landlord set the requisites for punch on a low deal table. Freddie rose and began to busy himself, sipping and tasting until he was satisfied. He then poured out two glasses and drained his own in one gulp. “May as well,” he said half to himself, “since she won’t have me.”
“Won’t have you,” repeated the marquess wrathfully. “Are you another who has been attempting to seduce my wife?”
“Good God! No,” said Freddie hurriedly. “I mean Amelia. Proposed, you know. But she won’t have me.”
“Then we share the same fate,” said the marquess, kicking the logs with his boot.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Freddie cautiously. “But first of all, you know, you did tell Toby that any man could have your wife for the asking!”
The marquess went very white and still. “Then I cannot call Toby out,” he said at last in an anguished whisper. “What an utter fool I’ve been, Freddie.”
The door opened and Viscount Swanley strode in. He had been seeing to the rubbing down of the horses and was now prepared to relax. He was feeling justifiably proud of himself. Margery’s reputation was saved. Toby would live and everyone would live happily ever after.
He stopped in dismay at the two grim faces in front of him. “What can be the matter?” he asked anxiously. “Were we not in time?”
“Oh, we were indeed in time. Everything is a garden of roses,” said the marquess bitterly. “My wife has been told of my ill-judged remarks at Watier’s and Amelia has refused Freddie. I have never known a woman to intrigue so much as Margery. She is probably sitting up in her room plotting some excellent way to get rid of me.”
Margery was in fact pacing up and down her room like a small caged tiger, watched by her anxious aunt.
“Mayhap he was in his cups when he said those dreadful words,” suggested Amelia hopefully.
“I shall never forgive him. Never!” said Margery passionately. “Living with Desdemona would be a better fate. But what of you, Amelia?”
Amelia blushed painfully. “Mr. Jamieson proposed marriage to me,” she said in a whisper. “But I am too old for him. Perhaps now, if I told him that I had reconsidered, then I would be able to supply you with a home.”
“Do you love him?” asked Margery bluntly.
For a few minutes there was no sound but the moan of the wind in the fireplace and the hissing whisper of snow against the panes.
“Yes,” said Amelia softly. “But I am far too old. To tie a young man like that down—”
“Fiddle!” said Margery roundly. “Freddie is not nearly as stupid as he looks—sorry, Amelia—and had no doubt considered the matter carefully and has no doubt been ridiculed unmercifully by his so-good friends, Toby and Archie. But do not sacrifice yourself for me.”
“If he loved me and if he knew what he was doing, then it would be no sacrifice,” said Amelia slowly.
“Then forget about my agonies,” said Margery brusquely. “Let one of us be happy. Go to him. Go immediately, Amelia. Throw yourself on his neck and tell him you love him. Please, my dear friend and aunt. You have done so much for me. Do this one thing for yourself. I shall contrive. I always have.”
She smiled at her aunt’s radiant face. Amelia looked very much younger than her years.
Trembling with fear and emotion, Amelia entered the private parlor and blinked at the light and at the three gentlemen seated there. Freddie, Perry, and the marquess rose to their feet and looked at her inquiringly. The marquess noticed with surprise that Amelia, with her eyes shining, her soft hair in a simple style under a demure lace cap, and her plump and shapely figure, still attired in a scarlet merino ball gown, was indeed a fine-looking woman.
“Servant, Lady Amelia,” said the marquess, giving her his best bow. “Can we be of assistance to you?”
But Amelia had eyes for no one but Freddie. Taking a deep breath, she said in a tremulous voice, “Mr. Jamieson. Earlier this evening you honored me with a proposal of marriage. I have decided to accept that proposal. Oh, F-Freddie, I am too old for you but I do love you so!”
Freddie had never been considered a man of action by his friends. But it seemed to take him two seconds to cross the parlor floor and clasp Amelia in his arms and kiss her passionately. The marquess felt a queer twist in his innards. Their love for each other was so powerful, it was practically tangible. The emotional Perry had happy tears in his eyes. “Let’s leave them alone,” he whispered.
The marquess and Perry edged silently from the room, unnoticed by the happy couple. They paused outside the door. “Well, shall we descend to the tap?” asked Perry cheerfully.
The marquess slowly shook his head. “I am going to see my wife,” he said slowly. “I feel I have wasted too much time already.”
Lady Margery was turning over luxurious thoughts of vengeance in her mind. She would go to Desdemona and beg for a place. And Desdemona would humiliate her and treat her horribly, and then he would be sorry.
She would take a post as a governess and her employers would humiliate her and maybe beat her, and then he would be sorry.
But after a while her fantasies seemed as ridiculous as they in fact were. She must face the fact that her husband felt nothing for her. A tear rolled slowly down her cheek. There was a soft knock at the door and she brushed the tear angrily and went to answer it. Her husband stood on the threshold. She could not make out the expression on his face in the gloom, and shrank back.
He walked into the room and sat down in a low chair by the fire and stared into the flames. Margery slowly closed the door and came to stand over him, waiting for him to speak.
The marquess had been rehearsing many flowery and elegant speeches, but now he found that his throat was dry and that he was at a loss for words. Margery watched the firelight playing over his handsome face and elegant clothes as he sat back in the chair with one booted foot on the fender.
“The most damnable thing had happened,” he said suddenly in his light husky voice without looking at her. “I have fallen in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it.
“I was startled by the abandon of your love-making and mistook what I now realize was innocent passion for the art of an experienced woman.”
Margery blinked in surprise.
“Perhaps you feel there is no hope for us. In that case I will release you and make provision for you so that you will not have to rely on Desdemona or your father.”
She inched towards him, half frightened that he was playing some terrible joke.
“I was not in love with you when I married you. I knew I had to find a wife to produce an heir at some point. You were of good birth and in need of security. It seemed a fair bargain. I did not plan on falling in love you with, Margery. Rage and jealousy and possessiveness have made me unkind. I said terrible things about you at Watier’s. Toby is a fool and not to be blamed for his actions.
“If you think that you could tolerate me, I would be happy with only that. I shall not press any intimate attentions on you.”
There was a long silence while the marquess brooded sadly on the hopelessness of it all. With a start he realized Margery had whispered something.
“What!” he said, twisting round.
“I didn’t fall in love with you when we were married,” said Margery softly. “I had been in love with you for—oh, such a long time before that.”
The marquess leaned back, limp with relief, in his chair and closed his eyes. With something like awe, she saw the glint of tears under his heavy lids and put her hand softly on his shoulder and bent her lips to his.
The marquess gave a groan and dragged her down onto his lap, kissing her and holding her and marveling at the miracle of recovering what he had so nearly lost.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Earl of Chelmswood stood outside the wind
ows of Rundell & Bridges with his countess clinging to his arm. He felt old and drained and tired. A bad run at the tables had sunk a great hole in the money he had received for Chelmswood, and now his countess was on the hunt for that necklace of Margery’s. He dreaded the cost but even more did he dread his wife’s temper.
“Come along,” snapped Desdemona. “It is not in the window. You must ask inside.”
It was a pale spring day with the first hint of warmth in the air. The earl thought longingly of Chelmswood as he had never done before. The daffodils would be out on the south lawn and the primroses in the hedgerows. He felt suddenly like a very elderly and very fallen angel, shut and barred from an English paradise.
With a little sigh, he entered the darkness of the shop, aware of his wife’s predatory grasp on his arm.
Desdemona did not wait for him to speak. “That necklace,” she cried to the first assistant, “—the diamond-and-ruby one which you had displayed in your window. I want it.”
The assistant shook his head sadly. “You are too late, my lady. A gentleman bought it only the other day.”
“Which gentleman?” hissed Desdemona.
“It was the Marquess of Edgecombe, my lady. He bought it for his wife.”
“Fool!” screamed Desdemona, rounding on her husband. “This is what comes of your senile procrastination—you doddering old man.”
Something seemed to snap in the earl’s brain.
“I’ll buy you a present, madam,” he roared, happily oblivious of the staring eyes of the other customers. “You blood-sucking harpy. You can have a divorce as a present, that’s what. You’re nothing but a whited sepulcher—damme, if that ain’t just it—a whited sepulcher, madam. All airs and graces on the outside, and inside, rotting with greed and spite and venom.”
The countess looked at him in amazement. “But Jimmy…”
“Stow it!” said the earl rudely. “I’m going to sell that barracks in Grosvenor Square and I’m going to take the money and… and… damme, I’m going to buy Margery a demned wedding present instead of that cheap vase you insisted on. Here, fellow, bring out some of your best gems. Only the best for my daughter.”
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