A Heart Too Proud

by Laura London

  Jane had gone into the cottage for another basket of wash when, to my exasperation, I saw Cleo come tearing around the side of the barn in hot pursuit of an angry young duckling. So intent was I upon catching the miscreant spaniel that I didn’t hear the drumming of hoofbeats until the horse was almost upon me.

  The large bay stallion had been running hard. A dash of foam from its slavering mouth landed on my sleeve as it reared to stop only inches from where I was standing. It was close enough to blot out the sun. Thank God English boys learn to ride almost before they learn to walk or this country girl would have been but a memory. I was conscious of a snarling, adolescent male voice.

  “What in hell do you mean running under my horse’s hooves, you paper-skulled twit? You could have been trampled!” The boy dismounted and angrily shook his riding crop in my face.

  At that moment, Christopher rounded the corner of the barn, took in the scene, and ran up and punched the other boy in the face without a by-your-leave. Good for you, Kit, I thought as the reckless young rider landed in the dirt. But he was up in a flash and they were into it deep, all arms flailing like windmills, a donnybrook in the middle of the dusty road. Before too long, there was a gaggle of spectators, with the twins carrying on a running commentary, and the old village men gazing on speculatively, laying bets as to the outcome. The young rider’s anger had changed to fear under Christopher’s well-trained onslaught; he was definitely getting the worst of it but refused to yield before such a crowd. Boys are funny and I shall never understand them. I was beginning to get upset.

  I saw Lord Peterby riding up the road on his mincing thoroughbred and I hailed him to stop and put an end to this scene of what looked to me to be incredible violence.

  “It’s really too bad that Dearborne isn’t here to see this,” he said. “He taught the boy much of what he knows. However I love a mill though, I suppose it isn’t proper for them to carry on so in the village square.”

  Lord Peterby swung himself down easily from the saddle, entrusting his reins to the blacksmith. He walked up to the milling pair, and, placing a firm hand on each wilted collar, pulled them apart.

  “Take a damper, you two, or I’ll have you fighting in the pigsty.” They turned and looked at him; Lord Peterby was apparently known to both combatants, even though they themselves had never met.

  “He was insulting Elizabeth, Lord Lesley,” said Christopher hotly. “He was raising his crop at her and he called her disrespectful names.”

  “Insulting her? She ran in front of me and shied my horse!” said the unknown rider, pointing at me with a bloody finger.

  “Ah, chercher la femme,” said Lord Peterby, casting his eyes heavenward. “Whoever is to blame, the matter does not warrant dueling pistols at dawn, would you say, Master Jeffrey? Sir Christopher of the Roundhouse Right?”

  The boys shook hands, apologies were made all around, and Lord Peterby made us known to Christopher’s erstwhile opponent, who turned out to be Jeffrey Macready, the squire’s oldest boy. To my amusement, the two really began to hit it off, making plans to go and have target practice the next morning. Fisticuffs one moment and friends the next!

  Lord Peterby remounted, advising Jeffrey to do the same if he wanted to get home in time to clean himself up before luncheon or his father would know he’d been brawling. He added that he would have accompanied us home if he were not on the way to an appointment. As he spoke he ran his eyes over me in the fashion that puts one forcibly in mind of the Wolf’s first view of Little Red Riding Cape. I was grateful that he had urgent business elsewhere.

  “My goodness, Kit,” said Caro on the way home, as we four struggled with the lumber. “If we knew you were so ferocious we would have taken great care before this not to tease you so much.”

  Ferocious indeed. By the time we had reached the house, Christopher had a horrible shiner, which closed his left eye and quite discolored his entire face. With his black eye and torn clothes he looked not like a member of the aristocracy, but a blind beggar who should be sitting by the roadside soliciting contributions.

  “Poor Kit,” I said with heartfelt sympathy. “That must be very painful.”

  “It do sting a bit.” He winced.

  “If you want to go and get cleaned up, I shall bring you a piece of meat for poultice to keep down the swelling.”

  “That sounds good,” said Christopher, walking in the direction of his room. I followed him after a bit, knocking on the door of his room with meat in hand.

  “It’s Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, come on in.” His jacket was draped over the bedpost. He was standing by the washbasin cleaning his face; there was a rent in the sleeve of his shirt.

  “If you are to be my knight-errant, at least let me mend your armor for you.” He shrugged himself out of the shirt and handed it negligently to me. It was then I saw the jagged red scar on the left side of his chest, just below his collarbone.

  “Christopher, how on earth…” I looked up at his face, and reached out and touched the wound.

  He hesitated. “It’s just an old wound.”

  “It’s not old, it’s recent. Tell me how this happened. Who did this to you?”

  He looked uncomfortable, and said, “I’ll tell you then, but you can’t repeat it to anyone.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I was with my father when he was shot and, as you can see, I caught one of the bullets myself. The men came while we were asleep; the memory is very hazy to me even though it happened just months ago. My father died that night, and they tell me I nearly died myself. I already told you my father worked in the War Office with Uncle Nicky. It seems they were after something other than mere plunder because none of our valuables were taken. Our library was left in a shambles; Father’s books were ripped apart violently, the bindings all slashed and destroyed, the pages strewn about the room.”

  “Aren’t you afraid they’ll try and kill you again?” I asked, my voice tight with horror.

  “I don’t know why they would. I certainly don’t remember anyone’s identity. I suppose the shock must have wiped it out of my mind because I don’t recall anyone wearing a mask, either. And I don’t know a thing about what the men might have been after. But Uncle Nicky is having me guarded; that is why I am here and that is why he suddenly hired that crew of rough-looking laborers. Among them are my bodyguards.”

  Chapter Five

  The next day was a rainy, gusty Kentish day, and I lay in bed past time to get up, listening to the drops thud against the ground outside. It would turn the countryside an even deeper green, and the grasses would sparkle like a thousand jeweled ladies. Or a thousand polished daggers. I shuddered. It was an ugly story that Christopher had told me yesterday, but it hadn’t frightened me so much as it had filled me with a wild righteous fury. I wanted to see the killers brought to justice. That such men had only to pull a trigger to cause so much grief and misery!

  A tiny breeze set the curtains aflutter as Christa came into the room. She had seen Christopher set out for target practice with Jeffrey—rain or no rain—and his eye looked much better. I wondered if Kit had been followed by one of the workmen-bodyguards.

  Today we would begin work on the Norman man-o’-war for our theatrical. We had planned to set up in the barn and paint, saw, and hammer madly away. Caro pointed out that we had better hurry our project along—if it rained any more we might need it to sail away to safety from the deluge, like Noah. The twins and I decided to meet later in the barn. First I had to finish some research in the library at Barfrestly Manor.

  I try to make my productions as historically accurate as possible, unless it suited my fancy to do otherwise. The admiral’s main library was always a treasure trove of information, full of old maps, charts, books, and treatises. Where else could I have learned that a muslin band soaked in liquefied cat’s dung makes an excellent depilatory (give me the hair any day) or that King Jamie had a marvelously odd fondness for young boys? I pulled a tattered wool s
hawl over my head and dashed through the garden, letting myself into the manor by a side door. Once inside, I dried my wet pattens on my hem. Better to dampen my skirt than one of the admiral’s old carpets.

  I stepped into the library, leaving the door ajar behind me, and then walked over to the window. The soft, moist breeze swept in from the outside and ran around the corners of the room like a sprightly child. I always felt at home here; this is where I spent much of my time on days like this. This had been my special room. The admiral had allowed me the run of the place because he knew I liked to read, and I tried to show my gratitude by keeping the books in good condition and airing the room. The admiral didn’t use the room much himself as he had a small study stocked with his favorite books, which were of a highly technical military and nautical nature.

  I paused a moment in reverie about the old admiral. He was always described as eccentric, but I thought of him as interesting. He liked to relive his battles, and whatever you wished to converse with him about, he would always manage to lead the talk, in ways subtle or direct, to his experiences with the fleet. His last big commission had been with His Majesty’s fleet in the war with the American colonies, and we were always hearing about the damned Yankee Doodles. He was nearly stone-deaf, probably from the din of battle, and used a speaking tube which never seemed to work very well. In his last years, therefore, he was lost at sea, tossed on the roaring storm of his own memories, never to come back to port. On a stormy winter night, when the wind would rattle the shutters and howl from the Channel, he would climb up the ivy on the side of the manor as ably as if he had once again been a twenty-year-old midshipman sporting in the rigging, and he would step out onto the roof. I used to see him there when I was a child, stalking back and forth with his garrick topcoat on, his hawklike face splitting the gale, shouting orders and obscenities to the imaginary topmen breaking sail in the black clouds above his head. I admired him for that, but it always caused a great commotion among the servants for fear that he would try to walk the plank and end up on the ground below with a broken neck. Like poor Henri.

  I put down the book I had been reading and shuddered. Like poor Henri. I had seen someone walking on the roof, and Henri had been found dead immediately afterward.

  I felt a sudden urge to complete my reading in our cottage in the company of Mrs. Goodbody. As I rose to my feet I heard the sound of firm footsteps in the hallway. The library door was thrust open, and Lord Nicholas Dearborne, the Marquis of Lorne, strode into the room and grabbed me by the wrist.

  “What are you doing in here?” he demanded. I hadn’t even known he had returned from London. As before, his physical attractiveness hit me like a blow beneath the ribs, leaving me feeling slightly giddy. My attempt to free my wrist from his fingers caused them unconsciously to tighten their hold so that I felt shackled by iron.

  “Do you always gape like a startled sheep whenever anyone asks you a question?” he snapped, cutting the carpet from under my dignity.

  “I think you’ve broken my wrist,” I managed to gasp, stupidly. He released me. Staring resentfully at the marquis, I rubbed the mistreated joint.

  “Sir,” I began, attempting to restand my poise on its tottering foothold, “Admiral Barfreston allowed me free access to the library and I didn’t think to ask your permission before I used it again; that is, now that it is yours. I didn’t even know that you had returned to Barfrestly.” My voice was quite steady. “If you don’t wish me to use the library, you have only to say so—I’m aware that my sisters and I are at the mercy of your generosity, thus making your wishes of paramount concern to me.” This hadn’t been delivered with quite the degree of crushing scorn that I had intended, crushing scorn not being something at which I particularly shine. To my humiliation, I felt a blush rise to my cheeks—the curse of fair skin.

  The marquis frowned and ran a careless hand through his shining hair.

  “You are not at the mercy of my generosity, as you so quaintly phrase it. By supporting you, I am merely fulfilling my obligations to Admiral Barfreston.”

  Far from mollified, I tried to match the coolness of his tone as I answered, “That’s what Mrs. Goodbody told us, but that is not everyone’s opinion. There are some people who feel that it is improper for me to receive support from someone whom… I have no claim on.” I saw Lord Dearborne’s lip curl sardonically. “Like Mrs. Plumford,” I added, wanting to be specific.

  “And who is Mrs. Plumford?” asked the marquis. He crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder casually against one of the tidy bookcases.

  “She’s Mr. Plumford’s wife.” The marquis’s smile deepened. I could tell that he thought he was dealing with an idiot. “Mr. Plumford is the parish sexton.”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Plumford is uninformed on the finer points of British law concerning inheritance. When one inherits an estate, he inherits the responsibilities and liabilities as well as the income of the estate,” Lord Dearborne said suavely. “In supporting you I am merely carrying out the wishes of Admiral Barfreston, in accordance with the law.”

  I believed him. Whatever Mrs. Plumford might know about the finer points of British inheritance law, to me they were an uninteresting enigma. What the marquis said was so, must be so.

  “Do you mind very much having me for a responsibility?” I asked, looking up at the marquis. The hard-temper lines around his mouth relaxed as he reached out his hand and with one long finger lightly traced the curve of my cheek. The color seemed to darken in his eyes as he regarded me thoughtfully. Very gently, his exploring fingers traveled down to stroke the sensitive skin at the back of my neck; it felt as though it melted at his touch. In fact, time itself took on a curious liquid quality.

  “Sometimes a responsibility can also be a pleasure,” he said languidly. His hand lifted and cupped one light lock of hair that had been curling against my breast. I looked down to where his hand played, and felt a strange tightening in my throat as he caressed and stroked and swirled the lock of hair, where it lay. My head began to buzz and hum; exotic sensations seemed to be washing into my body. It was as if the room had turned into a voluminous honeycomb and we were being drowned in honey.

  “Do you mind very much being my responsibility?” His words penetrated slowly and softly through the thick haze that had engulfed my consciousness, as though the pound-pounding of the surf on a seashore had formed itself into a language which only I could understand. Lord Dearborne was the sea, the earth, and the spring honey, and I would be drowned and washed away whether I responded or not. There was no one to save me.

  “I… I’m not sure.” Dear God. Why must I stammer and speak in monosyllables? What was happening to me? I lifted my head to his, causing a tear to drop unbidden down my cheek. I blinked back further tears, hoping against hope to find the answer in his eyes. There was no answer there, only an immense azure sadness. I searched his face briefly, and abandoned the quest as the search became its own justification, as my eyes came to rest finally, inevitably, on his lips. He had asked me a question. I lifted a hand, experimentally, and placed it near his mouth, a thrill paralyzing my wrist as I felt his soft breath. His arms were around me now, and he was pulling me fully against him.

  “I don’t know you…” I bit my lip, unable to complete my thought.

  “We could remedy that, couldn’t we,” he said. His lips were very close to mine. Suddenly, unbidden, Christopher’s words came back to me, just as they had been spoken in this room. I was the violet-eyed filly. I disentangled myself from him, pushing weakly against his chest.

  “I’m afraid,” I whispered.

  He raised his eyebrows slightly, slipping his fingers to steady my chin.

  “Are you afraid?” he said, looking at me strangely. “You ought to be, little flower. Beauty is a dangerous gift for an innocent like you. Today is your lucky day, foolish one.” Lord Dearborne picked up the book I had been holding on his entrance to the room and handed it to me. His voice was curt and impatient as he said, “You may come
into the library whenever you wish but run along just now.”

  I ran.

  Neglecting to collect my shawl, I slipped quietly out the back door. The rain touched my shoulders like a cat’s paws and I shivered involuntarily, though it was not cold. The rain was pouring out of the sky, sending fine mists curling from the leaves of the trees. Foolish one. But not so foolish that I didn’t understand the implications of Lord Dearborne’s actions. And not so innocent that I couldn’t recognize lovemaking when I was its object. Unfortunately, I was not so clever as to meet these very improper advances with the treatment they deserved. I should have screamed, fainted, and cried. I should have called for Mrs. Goodbody. I should have done anything but stand there while the marquis touched me in a fashion I was convinced would be repugnant to any gently bred lady of sensibility. I reflected gloomily on my lack of femininity. Why had I become so confused and passive when Lord Dearborne touched me? Because he was a practiced rake, I told myself severely, resolving to avoid him as much as possible in the future. I made my way toward the old barn where a light burned through the slats.

  The twins were there, working on the boat. Christopher was there also, sitting on a mound of hay, Joe Hawkins’s ancient fowling-piece next to him.

  “Lizzie, wherever have you been?” chorused the twins. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. We thought you had gotten washed away in the flood.”

  “I believe she has been washed away,” said Christopher. “Come and get dry, ’Lizbeth, you look like a wet rag.”

  I sat next to him on the hay. Taking off his coat, he flung it over my shoulders and patted my wet hair with a piece of toweling. A drop of water ran down my nose, pausing a moment before leaping off into the dry dust on the barn floor. I sneezed.

  “How was your target practice?” I wondered. “Did you hit the target?”