The Madcap

by Nikki Poppen

  “It’s not what I thought a prison would look like,” Marianne confessed.

  “Oh, we have other dank holes, I assure you. I’m convinced Newgate is one of the most barbarous places on the planet,” Alasdair said in a cavalier tone.

  But Marianne was in a more thoughtful mood and did not return his banter. She stared out the window, watching a boat head toward the mouth of the Thames. “I wonder if, living in these surroundings with at least some creature comforts, Sir Walter Raleigh didn’t really believe the queen would have him executed.”

  “For all the luxury he may have had in these chambers, he still didn’t have his freedom” Alasdair’s voice carried a subtle undertone to it that caused Marianne to turn from the window.

  He’d sounded so cavalier the previous moment, the haunted tone surprised her. The Alasdair she’d come to know in the past two weeks was a carefree man, unfettered by the world. His tone now suggested otherwise. The shadow in his dark eyes, which until now had only sparked with mischief and laughter, hinted that he knew the lure of freedom and the agony of living without it. She would not have guessed that a man like Alasdair would relate so strongly to the situation of Sir Walter Raleigh.

  “Prisons are not made of walls alone,” Alasdair said, looking past her to the small window.

  His words moved her and touched something primal at her mind’s core. Unmindful of anyone who might happen upon them, Marianne raised a gloved hand to his cheek. “I cannot conceive of a prison that could hold you if you did not wish it,” she said softly.

  Something Marianne could not define moved in Alasdair’s eyes, the shadow receding to be replaced by a warmer look. He took her hand where it rested against his cheek and brought it to his lips to kiss in a smooth gesture. “Perhaps that is why I’ve come to cherish you so dearly, Marianne.” He held her eyes over her hand. “I admire in you that which I don’t possess myself. You are sunshine and lightness, the pure embodiment of all that is bold and good in this world.” His voice was low, husky with intense emotion.

  Marianne’s own voice was hardly more than a trembling whisper. “What prison holds you, Alasdair? Surely one must, if you think so highly of me, for I fear that pedestal is one from which the fall would be too great”

  “I would not darken your light with my burdens, Marianne. My burdens are no different than anyone else’s of my station.”

  Marianne opened her mouth to coax more from him, but her mother’s return to the room preempted the opportunity. In any case, one glance at Alasdair revealed that the moment was gone. He was smiling, offering his arm to her mother and already chatting about the next spot of interest. His performance was so convincing, Marianne was hard-pressed to believe their intimate moment had even occurred. The threesome exited the room and Marianne cast a last look backward, imprinting on her mind the spot by the window. She wanted to remember that moment always; never had anyone shared so deeply with her.

  She would treasure each word, each idea. She would remember both Alasdair’s confession of inner turmoil and his confession of feelings for her. It put an undeniable spring her step, when they moved on to the Jewel House, that the handsome man beside her thought of her as sunshine and light. But she’d meant it, too, when she’d said such a pedestal was too high. She wasn’t sure she deserved such adulation. She had burdens and secrets too, although they were no doubt of a different nature than the darker burdens he professed to carry.

  Still, they were secrets for a reason. If it were up to her, she’d much prefer Alasdair not hear about her experience in New York. Apparently the Countess of Camberly felt the same way, since she’d not brought up the event in New York at all. Marianne was thankful for the countess’ discretion. Perhaps the countess believed as she did-that it didn’t seem fair for a single event of little account to affect the rest of one’s life.

  The rest of the Tower passed quickly. They took in the armory and the tragic White Tower. The place was filling with more visitors when they decided to leave. Marianne was happy to get away from the growing crowd. The bustle of groups being herded from spot to spot would diminish her experience. Marianne hugged her remembrances to herself all the way home in the open carriage and all through changing her gown for an afternoon ladies’ tea at Mrs. John Mackay’s.

  Mrs. Mackay’s well-earned reputation as a premier London hostess over the last decade did not disappoint. Her elegantly appointed town house contained a rare garden in Town, a garden that was large enough to host a tea. This afternoon, white canopies dotted the space. Tea tables and chairs for groups of eight were set beneath them, adorned in white cloths and vases of pink rosebuds. Even the weather conspired to assist in creating an ideal setting.

  Quite unintentionally, Marianne had chosen the perfect dress for the occasion: a white dress of Egyptian cotton trimmed in pink silk ribbon at the hem and full falls of lace that reached her elbow-length gloves from her puffed sleeves. Her mother beamed proudly at her from across the table. “London agrees with you, Marianne.”

  “Or perhaps it’s the Viscount Pennington,” one young debutante sitting at the table offered with a giggle she quickly stifled after a not-so-subtle pinch from her mother.

  “Are we talking about Pennington?” a familiar voice said, stepping into the canopied area from the gravel path.

  Marianne immediately recognized Roberta Famwick and her mother. She exchanged polite pleasantries with them, hiding her dismay that they were seated with them. She had not seen Roberta since the Radcliffe musicale and she did not relish the idea of discussing anything about Alasdair with her after the last time she had done so.

  Their hostess, Mrs. Mackay, passed by the table to inquire after their comfort, lingering long enough to exclaim over Marianne’s gown.

  “Louise Mackay is an enormous success story about overcoming scandal,” Roberta’s mother, Constance Farnwick, said with a knowledgeable air as she flipped open a black-lacquer fan with an Oriental design painted on its panels. She was a stylish woman with a worldly quality to her, tall and well dressed, yet she was not a friendly woman. Marianne could not imagine dissembling to her.

  The others at the table leaned forward, interested. The statement was surely a prelude to a much larger on dit. A few of the older women at the table nodded their heads. Apparently the news wasn’t all that fresh. Still, it was clear from the expectant looks on everyone’s faces that even old gossip carried a certain thrilling cachet to it.

  “You wouldn’t know, of course, Miss Addison, being new to London” Constance offered her and her mother a smile that managed to be both benevolent and condescending at once. “Mrs. Mackay used to live in a Nevada mining town. She made money by giving piano lessons, although some say she gave more than music instruction.” She looked meaningfully around the table to reinforce her barely veiled implications. “She’s what we call a woman who has `translated’ herself quite well into London society.”

  Marianne shot her mother a look. Was there a double meaning there? Had Mrs. Farnwick meant to suggest that the Addisons would need to “translate” themselves, as well, or was Mrs. Farnwick exhibiting excessively bad form in gossiping about their hostess?

  Her mother returned her questioning look with a quiet smile before turning her attention to Mrs. Famwick. “She should be applauded for her successes if they make her happy. Life in a mining town can be most difficult.” Elizabeth Addison raised a hand to gesture to the grand garden about them. “Who has more right to make oneself over than the individuals themselves? No one has to live with our choices but us” Marianne silently applauded her mother’s calm tenacity. Never, in her knowledge, had Marianne known her mother to let a slight to another stand when it was in her power to correct it.

  “And our husbands,” Mrs. Farnwick retorted, unwilling to lose the center of the group’s attention. “Mr. Mackay was reported, last year, to have punched a Charles Bonynge in the nose, in the middle of a bank, for maligning his wife’s honor.”

  “A ghastly sign of the tim
es.” A woman Marianne did not know sighed heavily over her tea cup.

  “Why is that?” Marianne asked.

  The woman looked startled. She had not expected anyone to question her comment. “Why? My dear girl, a decent wifely candidate does not have to be defended against malicious rumors because she doesn’t bring any questionable experiences into the marriage.”

  Another woman added her voice to the conversation. “It’s all changing now that the queen doesn’t rein in the prince. The prince tolerates all nature of entertainments. Even Mrs. Mackay can claim him on her guest lists. It’s all about entertainment and money these days. It’s all very gauche how our young men feel compelled to sell themselves to the highest bidder in order to keep their estates running.” The woman feigned a shudder that rocked the feathers on her wide-brimmed hat.

  Marianne let the comment pass. Surely whatever innuendo might be implied, it wasn’t aimed at her or Alasdair. But the void in the conversation left the perfect opportunity for Roberta to jump in.

  “There was even speculation a few days ago that Pennington’s interest in our dear Miss Addison was merely based on her fortune” Roberta’s comment had been wrapped in tones of shock and dismay, no doubt meant to communicate stalwart support of a friend who’d been maligned in the latest rumors circulating, but Marianne strongly questioned the sincerity of the tone. Roberta was not someone Marianne intuitively felt she could trust. It seemed odd that someone who didn’t know her well at all would seem inclined to defend her publicly or to share information of a private matter with her as Roberta had done the last time they’d talked.

  Marianne’s mother was ready to respond to the dubious comment, but Marianne would fight her own battles. She sat up straighter in her chair and fixed her fellow tablemates with a strong stare. “Pennington has been a delightful friend to our family, nothing more. We have a mutual friend in the Countess of Camberly, whom my mother and I had the good opportunity to meet while we were in New York last year.”

  Roberta made an exaggerated moue. “Then he’s not courting you? I had so hoped he was, for your sake, Miss Addison. . ” Her voice, imitating all kindness itself, trailed off.

  Mrs. Farnwick patted Roberta’s hand. “You are so kind to worry for your friend’s well-being.” She addressed her next comment to the table at large. “It’s refreshing to see girls befriend one another instead of become catty competitors on the marriage mart” Her gaze landed on Marianne. “Still, it’s for the best Pennington isn’t courting you. News is going around that his finances aren’t stable. No real trouble yet, not like Marlborough a few years ago, but concern is starting to rise.” She waved her fan. “Marlborough fought the debt as best he could, selling art and his library, even the enamels, before he capitulated and married the American girl.”

  Marianne heard the multiple meanings embedded in the message: an Englishman worth his merit would sell everything before he’d consider swallowing his pride and marrying an American for her millions. That was the criterion for Alasdair. One should not give in too early to the financial allure of an American wife.

  A white-aproned servant brought a tray of tea sweets to the table, saving Marianne from the need to respond. “Ah, lemon scones! Louise’s cook has the most delicious recipe I’ve ever tasted,” Mrs. Farnwick gushed, reaching for one of the delicacies as if she’d not slandered the hostess minutes before with the same relish with which she was now eating that hostess’ food.

  The library of Waltham House was dark and empty, save for the lamp burning low on the carved mantelpiece and the man and the woman conversing in hushed tones. Everyone else was in the ballroom, oblivious to the chicanery being planned down the hall.

  “Did you learn anything useful at the tea today?” Lord Brantley began without prelude. Time was of the essence. The last thing he wanted was to be discovered with Roberta Farnwick in a compromising setting. Who knew who would come through the door in hopes of finding a place for a quick rendezvous?

  “She met Pennington through the Countess of Camberly,” Roberta said. “Pennington didn’t pick her out randomly. He had an introduction.” She and Brantley had both originally suspected Pennington had approached her on his own.

  “Hmmm. There are too many Americans in London these days,” Brantley scoffed. “They’re all so busy helping each other to our titles. It’s pathetic, really, their attempts to Anglicize themselves.”

  Roberta smiled sweetly, no doubt trying to remind him that a willing English rose stood right in front of him ready for the plucking as long as a wedding ring went with it. Brantley toyed with a curl lying over Roberta’s shoulder and smiled meaningfully at her. He had to give the girl something to string her along. Without Roberta, he’d lose his meager entree into Marianne Addison’s world. He wanted to know what she did, where she went, and what the status of Pennington’s intentions were so he could better plan his own strategies.

  “How did she meet the countess?” Brantley wondered aloud, going over the earlier comments in his head.

  “In New York. Apparently they were there at the same time.”

  “Hmmm. I don’t recall the countess saying anything about the visit, or meeting her prior to Miss Addison’s arriving on our doorstep. Roberta dear, see what you can find out about Miss Addison’s trip to New York. Perhaps there’s something hiding there we can unearth and use” He dropped the curl, letting it fall against her breast. “You’ve done well, my dear. Now, go quickly so that you are not noticed. Send me a message when you know anything.”

  Alone in the room, Brantley stretched out on the long sofa. Miss Addison of San Francisco had been in New York, and yet the countess had not mentioned it except in passing reference. Goodness knew the countess had plenty of opportunities to expand upon that acquaintance. But he sensed that the countess was being deliberately vague in that regard.

  Additionally, he’d not been joking when he’d said there were too many Americans in London. Americans had been coming to London for years looking for a title, something to add to their bourgeois collection of things. He’d been in his twenties when the first of them had come, women with daughters who’d not been accepted in New York. San Francisco was a long way from London. It was not a journey one would elect to make without good reason.

  What would compel an heiress from the far west to make the trip when surely there were other centers of culture that would do just as nicely and at a shorter distance? Nothing that rivaled London, mind you, but there were numerous elite spas in America, and there was Newport for those who had the access and the money. In fact, many Americans departed London by June, setting aside the zenith of the London Season in lieu of getting to Newport.

  Brantley folded his hands behind his head. He smelled a secret. Miss Addison had something to hide, and he was confident in his abilities to ferret out that secret and expose it to the light. Once the secret was out, it would be interesting to see what Pennington would do. Would he walk away from the girl and claim to do his duty by marrying Miss Stewart, or would he attempt to defend the pretty American and justify her secret? It was always interesting, although not always surprising, to see what men would do for money. He would get an inkling of how far Pennington was willing to go tomorrow when he launched his next sally.

  Alasdair helped himself to a hearty plateful of breakfast from the sideboard in the morning room. He heaped sausage links next to his kippers and eggs. There was nothing like a good breakfast to start off a great day. He was in high spirits. The sun was out for a second day in a row, he was taking Marianne driving in the park later in the afternoon, and she had been a smashing success at the theater. Whatever vindictive recourse Brantley hoped to wreak in accordance with his bet to see her ousted from London by late July looked to be effectively thwarted.

  The man could bluster all he wanted. Marianne was taking well, thanks to the efforts of Camberly and Audrey. Alasdair knew that where Audrey led others would follow, especially with Stella heading up the vanguard. Alasdair doubted that
Brantley wanted to take on the Camberly prestige once it was firmly established that Marianne had Audrey’s sponsorship.

  Alasdair set down his plate and took his seat at the empty table, ready to congratulate himself on a hand well played when it came to his strategy with Marianne. Between him and Camberly, they had skillfully managed to buffer her from Brantley’s cruel intentions without worrying her over them or calling her attention to Audrey’s sponsorship. It had all been neatly negotiated without discussing a thing.

  Alasdair forked a sausage and bit deep into it, savoring its spicy juices. Ah, it was a particularly good day.

  “What is all this about?” his mother’s angry tones demanded from the doorway, giving short warning of her approach. She rattled a newspaper to emphasize her words. A footman efficiently pulled out a chair for her and started to ask about filling a breakfast plate. She dismissed him with an imperious wave of her hand. “Just tea, please” She turned to Alasdair, who was feeling that his particularly good day had just become less so. “I can’t eat a bite considering what the papers are writing about you,” she scolded.

  Alasdair set down his fork, giving his mother all his attention. “What are they writing, may I ask?”

  She shoved the page under his nose. “More tripe about you and the American girl. This columnist seems very informed about your whereabouts: you sat with that American at the Radcliffe musicale, and you escorted her to the theater. You have been officially and publicly linked to her. Perhaps we could discard the first mention in the papers as nothing more than social speculation. But now, to have it done a second time! Everyone will assume you have serious intentions toward her. You should have known better, Alasdair. This article even mentions poor Sarah again and your previous understanding with her.”

  Alasdair bore her tirade stoically. In the end, she could rant all she wanted and he would do what he preferred, he reminded himself.