The Madcap

by Nikki Poppen

  As the line began to form, it became obvious that there was an odd number of men. As the lowest-ranking female in the room, Marianne would be left out. She refused to let it upset her and prepared to take her father’s other arm when she saw Audrey whisper something to Alasdair, causing him to smile. He left Audrey and strode to Marianne’s side. “Miss Addison, please join us” was all he said, but Marianne saw a twinkle in his eye that suggested he was quite pleased about thwarting his mother’s subtle intentions.

  Marianne gave him a brave smile and gladly took his arm while he rejoined Audrey, second in line. The three of them went in to dinner together.

  But Alasdair’s mother wasn’t bested yet. Once soup was served, she asked, “How does dinner seating in America compare to seating here?”

  Marianne opted for the high road and replied sweetly, “The guest of honor sits at the host’s right hand, Lady Pennington. Other than that, for the most part, we sit where we’d like, within reason of course”

  Lady Pennington looked ready to sniff in disdain at the anarchy Marianne had suggested. Marianne was willing to let the woman’s implied insult rest but Audrey wasn’t. “For more formal occasions we decide seating precedent based on money. The richest people at the table sit above the salt and the poorer sit below. Of course, that’s all quite relative since Wall Street fortunes fluctuate on regular occasion.”

  Marianne took a sip of wine from her glass to cover her amusement. Lady Pennington looked aghast at Audrey’s casual comment about money. It was clear that having such public knowledge of such an intimate subject was positively abhorrent.

  Audrey wasn’t finished. “It’s much simpler, and frankly, it makes more sense. The rules here are positively ridiculous. A husband and wife are less likely to walk into together than a father and his daughter. No young girl relishes the idea of walking with her father when there’s a handsome eligible peer in the room. Why, it’s a matchmaking opportunity gone to waste.” Audrey reached for her glass and eyed the other guests, waiting for their reaction.

  “Here, here,” Lionel tapped on his crystal goblet with a spoon. “There are nearly as many Americans at this table as there are Brits,” he said, making it clear that Lady Pennington had managed to insult not just Marianne, but half of the other dinner guests as well. “In honor of the five of us at the table, I propose a toast to America and its simplicity. May it never be so difficult to sit down to table as it is in England.”

  Everyone laughed, most of them good-naturedly. Lady Pennington participated only grudgingly. With admirable skill, Sarah Stewart picked up the conversation after the toast, leading the discussion into travels and faraway places.

  Alasdair was immeasurably grateful for Lionel’s toast. The rest of dinner progressed smoothly. The Stewarts were pleasant dinner guests and responded with interest to the stories Marianne’s father told about the baking industry in San Francisco. The others knew each other and conversation flowed easily. He would have enjoyed the meal completely if it hadn’t been for his mother’s dark mood at the foot of the table, hovering around the meal like a threatening shadow. Her behavior had been purposely rude to Marianne and he would not tolerate it. He’d itched to defend Marianne when his mother had all but cut her dead upon introduction. Her perfunctory words, “Quite so,” had been worse than a direct snubbing.

  But Marianne had been more than up to the task of coping with his mother. Alasdair had been pleased to see Marianne make the most of the awkward introduction. In fact, he’d been pleased with her all night, although he doubted anything about her could be disappointing. She’d traveled to a home she’d never seen, met people she didn’t know except through reputation, knowing that everything she did or said would be looked upon askance and with suspicion simply because she wasn’t English. Worse than not being English, she was the competition.

  Alasdair watched with regret as the women departed the dining room. He didn’t want to imagine what his mother might say or imply in the privacy of the drawing room, out from under his watchful eye. But Marianne was surrounded by friends. Even Sarah had graciously offered her friendship. Audrey would not let his mother run roughshod over Marianne. Audrey would step in if needed, although Marianne was more than capable of fighting her own battles with her own resourceful wit and insight.

  Thankfully, the men decided to cut short the masculine pleasure of cigars and brandy after dinner and rejoined the women in the drawing room after only twenty minutes. The scene that met Alasdair’s eyes was placid enough to suit him, his eye immediately going to Marianne who sat with Sarah at one cluster of chairs looking at slides through a stereoscope. At a larger cluster containing a gold-and-white-striped sofa, his mother sat with Audrey, Stella, and Elizabeth Addison.

  Audrey rose upon seeing the men enter and took charge of the evening’s quiet activities. With quick efficiency, she divided the group up for cards, conveniently leaving Alasdair and Marianne on their own. Alasdair could not have orchestrated such a feat if he’d tried. He shot Audrey a thankful grin.

  “Miss Addison would probably enjoy a tour of the gardens, Pennington,” Audrey said, sitting down to cards across from Camberly. “The gardens are lovely in the evening with their lights on, Miss Addison. Pennington has arranged the most unique situation for showing off his gardens, very modern”

  Alasdair watched Marianne stifle a smile at the formality of Audrey’s comment. The cheeky girl was laughing at them. Well, he couldn’t blame her. It did seem unnecessarily stiff to be addressing everyone formally when everyone here knew each other far better than that. But, for his mother’s sake, they tolerated the tradition.

  He offered Marianne his arm, hardly able to wait until they were out of earshot to speak with her, really speak with her. He had not spoken with her for over a week and all he’d been able to do since her arrival was treat her as he would any other guest, when all he truly wanted to do was sweep her into his arms and declare to the world that she was his. But such an action would invoke all the scandal he’d tried so hard to avoid.

  Her hand trembled slightly on his sleeve. Ah, she felt it too, the need to escape the suffocating formality of the evening. He would give anything to simply be Alasdair and Marianne, to laugh with her without worrying who heard, to kiss her without worrying over who might see them.

  Alasdair turned the handle of the French doors leading out onto the wide terrace, letting the evening air cool his heated body. “We can breathe out here.” Alasdair turned to Marianne, grateful to be alone with her at last, although he was well aware that they were highly visible yet to those inside the drawing room. Still, no one could hear them, and that was the best privacy he was going to get.

  “This is beautiful.” Marianne’s gaze was focused on the gardens that spread beyond the terrace. “You’ve lit the gardens with gaslights. How clever. It’s a wonder everyone isn’t doing it.” Every several yards, tall wrought-iron posts rose along the gravel walkways bearing a lantern with a gaslight, illuminating the path so that the garden could be appreciated in the evening.

  “The idea came to me when I was in London a couple years ago. I was admiring the street lamps and I thought: Why not transport that idea to my gardens?” Alasdair explained.

  “So, you’re an inventor of sorts,” Marianne said, sounding impressed as she turned her attention from the gardens to him, making him the focus of her blue gaze. The mental pictures of her that he’d carried throughout the week had not done her justice. Her eyes were bluer, her hair a brighter gold than he recalled.

  “‘Inventor’ is a bit strong of a word. I didn’t create anything. I only applied an idea to a new setting.” He liked that she appreciated his efforts. “I confess that I enjoy the new inventions this modern age brings us. I appreciate wholeheartedly that I am lucky enough to live in an age of accessible wonder.” He’d never spoken such sentiments publicly before. Most of his peers had very little appreciation for the advancements being born around them.

  Marianne smiled. “I like
to think of this as an era of efficiency. We’re able to travel so much farther in a much quicker manner. To think it only took two weeks to cross the Atlantic when it used to take months. And we did it in luxury. We had every comfort aboard ship. My father’s bakery was one of the first businesses in San Francisco to deliver bread to people’s homes by delivery wagon so that they didn’t have to walk to the bakery. This way, there’s fresh bread on the table every morning.” She paused suddenly, her eyes searching his face.

  “What is it?” Alasdair asked, unsure what had caused her look of concern.

  “I shouldn’t talk of my father’s business. I am sure it is far too plebian for your tastes.”

  “Hardly. I meant it when I said I admire all the new inventions around us and I admire people like your father. Men like him are the new pioneers, the new aristocracy”

  “Not everyone likes newness or change,” Marianne observed.

  “No, not everyone” He knew she was thinking about his mother.

  “Your mother doesn’t. She doesn’t like me. My money is too new.” Marianne cut to the point, her eyes fixing him with a stare that demanded full honesty from him.

  “I’d be foolish to deny that,” Alasdair replied, reaching for one of Marianne’s hands. He couldn’t bear to be this close to her and not touch her. He placed a light kiss on her knuckles. “But I like you. I like you very much, as I have mentioned on more than one occasion.” He led her now, moving down the wide, shallow steps of the verandah and into the garden.

  “I love the night sky in the country. It’s so wide and I can see the stars. In London, I can’t see anything at night. The sky is blocked out with all the pollution and chimney smoke” Alasdair positioned himself behind Marianne and pointed to a cluster of stars. “That’s Cassiopeia. Once you find that constellation, you can use it as a reference point to find the other constellations. Look, there’s Ursa Major and the North Star.” He raised his arm and gestured with his hand as if drawing an invisible line that connected the stars.

  “I had no idea you were such a scientist, Alasdair. First the gaslights and now the constellations.”

  He laughed. “You seem unduly surprised.”

  “You didn’t mention any of this in London.” Marianne turned to face him, her hand playfully resting on the lapels of his evening coat. The gesture bespoke a warming familiarity and was, of course, not the type of gesture an English girl would use at all, for it was far too intimate for English tastes. But not for his. “There’s apparently a lot I don’t know about you, Alasdair, so many layers. I’m intrigued about what else I might learn”

  The comment itself was far too flirtatious by English standards with its veiled invitation to seduction. Marianne clearly had not meant to imply that she was open to any untoward overtures. Nonetheless, Alasdair was overwhelmed. He could not recall if there’d ever been anyone, let alone a woman, who’d been interested enough to get to know him and his many “layers” as Marianne had put it.

  The light atmosphere which had surrounded their earlier conversation changed into something serious, something tender. “No one has ever wanted to look that deeply at me before, Marianne.” The world had slowed for him, each minute detail becoming brilliantly apparent to his senses. He could smell the lemon-lavender scent of her soap at this close distance, see the small race of her pulse at the base of her neck.

  Marianne’s brow furrowed slightly as if she could not quite grasp the concept that someone wouldn’t want to look deeper.

  “The truth is, Marianne, almost everyone who knows me sees only Viscount Pennington. My only worth is in being the flesh-and-blood incarnation of the family title. I’m nothing but a rich, well-educated, perhapspampered male whose only duty is to stand to stud and continue the incarnation for future generations.” He hadn’t meant to sound so utterly cynical, but once he’d started, the words had poured out unedited and harsh. Marianne blushed at the last but stood her ground, unabashed by his candor. He feared for a moment that he might have earned her scorn, or even her pity. But Marianne bit her lower lip thoughtfully, considering her words before replying. It was a great consolation that he knew without equivocation her words would be sincere and not a knee-jerk reaction of platitudes.

  She shook her head in the moonlight, making her hair appear like an ethereal halo. “It’s ironic, then, that I’ve never seen you that way. You’ve never been `the viscount’ to me up until today when we arrived. It wasn’t until I saw you standing on the front steps, surrounded by the trappings of this house, that I realized it.”

  “You have no idea how potent that concept is, the notion of being looked upon as a man and nothing more,” Alasdair whispered, his voice hoarse with barely contained desire.

  “It is all anyone wants,” Marianne replied softly, her eyes never leaving his. “You no more want to be cherished for your title than I want to be cherished for my fortune.”

  Was that a warning or a wish? Alasdair heard both in her soft tones. She smiled fondly at him to indicate she meant no malice with her words, and then she stepped away from him, letting go of his lapels, moving out of reach. “Good night, Alasdair. Don’t stay out too long.” The ivory silk of her gown had a luminosity of its own as she moved over the yard and back to the terrace like a floating angel, leaving Alasdair to ponder the thoughts she had shared with him.

  The intuition that had drawn him to Marianne from the first had proven to be right. He knew with the most primal of instincts that Marianne was meant for him. His need for her had been revealed tonight with shocking clarity. It was quite simple and straightforward. He cared for her and she was not indifferent to him in a romantic sense. Beyond that, she’d displayed a level of understanding that overwhelmed him. And yet, the simple path that should be taken at this juncture was full of twists and turns.

  He had to ensure that Marianne knew that the depth of his affection ran much deeper than her father’s fortune, that he cared for her precisely because of who she was inside.

  If it was up to him, he’d propose outright and marry her as fast as he could. But that was far too precipitous, especially when she might decide that the burden of his mother’s dislike was too much to bear in exchange for what he offered her. That was a question worth pondering. What did he have to offer Marianne Addison, a girl who had everything?

  He had an expensive estate that could no longer support itself with its tenant rents. He had an overbearing mother who would not relinquish the household reins without a struggle. He had a high-priced friendship with the Prince of Wales, a friendship that sucked his coffers as dry as his estate did. Marianne would see all that; she was too smart not to. And she would wonder how much of his courtship was, indeed, predicated on the worth of her dowry and how much was based on genuine affection. Would he ever be able to convince her that his heart was enough?

  Alasdair raised his head to the night sky and drew a deep breath. No one had ever mentioned how difficult it was to court an heiress. The money seemed to get in the way.

  The days before the prince’s arrival were a frenzy of activity. Tradesmen and workmen from the village swarmed the length and breadth of Highborough from the gardens to the garrets where trunks of carefully packed linens and expensive bed curtains were being unearthed and placed in chambers that had, until recently, housed bare bed frames.

  “It’s almost as if the house is putting on a ball gown or a grand costume,” Marianne remarked to Alasdair while they wrestled a trunk into large bedchamber.

  “It’s the aristocratic version of economizing,” Alasdair said wryly, tugging loose the wide leather straps that had been holding the trunk shut. “It’s an expensive honor to entertain the prince. Some people spend a year getting ready for his visit. One lady I know even built a special conservatory just for the royal visit.” Alasdair threw back the heavy lid. A strong scent of lavender and rue filled the air almost immediately.

  Marianne reached through layers of tissue paper and pulled out the sheets on top. She shook out th
e exquisitely hemmed Irish linen. “No stains. The trunk has preserved them beautifully but they’ll have to be pressed.”

  “I haven’t found a way to prevent wrinkles yet.” Alasdair took the linen from her and studied it.

  Marianne stared into the trunk so reminiscent of the trunks that had contained her dresses from Worth. An idea came to her. “When everything is packed up next time, we should try to emulate Worth’s packing methods. They ship dresses across the Atlantic and the gowns arrive without being crushed. I think it’s due to the layers of bedding he uses to cushion the gowns and keep them from wrinkling,” Marianne suggested.

  Alasdair gave her a queer look. For a moment she wondered if she’d said something wrong. Then his face split into a wide smile and an intangible spark connected them in that moment. “I do believe you’ve got something there. We’ll try it. If it works, you will have won the housekeeper’s admiration forever. She’s got three girls from the village down there right now doing nothing but pressing linens. Goodness knows we could put those girls to better use if we could spare them”

  Marianne smiled back, a butterfly of excitement making a small flutter in her stomach. She enjoyed working with Alasdair. Doing a project with him was quite different than strolling through London or perusing the bookshelves of Hatchards or dancing with him at a ball. This was real work; they were creating something from their efforts. When they finished with a trunk, a room was transformed into a lovely vision.

  A maid popped into the room, loaded down with a basket of freshly pressed linens. Marianne traded her the clean linen for the wrinkled. She snapped open a sheet, laughing as Alasdair struggled to catch the fluttering ends that came his way.