by Dorothy Mack
“We shall take very good care of Lady Marianne,” he promised with his charming smile focused full strength on Margery.
The slight belligerence faded from her pleasant face and she nodded, smiling shyly.
Justin noted the slightly sardonic expression on his ward’s face, surmising with inward amusement that she’d give no quarter in any contest, but he only said abruptly: “You are shivering, we must get back to the house.”
He took a civil but hasty leave of the farmer’s wife, barely allowing Marianne time to promise a farewell visit to her namesake on the morrow before hurrying her away with a hand under her elbow. The shivering had increased, for the air was crisp despite the sunshine. Frowning slightly, he put two fingers to his mouth and emitted a shrill whistle. Mountain, who had been leisurely cropping grass at the top of the rise, raised his handsome head and whinnied, then trotted down to the waiting pair.
Marianne was too astonished at this performance to object when the marquess mounted quickly and held down a hand to her. She was a tall girl, but slimly made, and was effortlessly lifted up before him on the saddle.
“I’ll get you all wet,” she protested feebly, not at all sure she liked the feel of his arm around her waist, but unable to ignore it as she would have preferred.
He deigned no reply to this bit of foolishness except a slight tightening of that constraining arm. The short ride to the house was accomplished in total silence. Marianne, rigidly denying a traitorous urge to relax back against the marquess, sat uncomfortably erect, resentment at his lack of embarrassment in a situation she found totally untenable imbuing her with the necessary persistence to maintain a precarious balance. She left him with a murmured word of thanks and hastened to her room to change.
A very few minutes later she entered the family parlor carrying the borrowed coat. Seeing a crackling fire burning in the grate in the empty room, she hesitated briefly, then assuming the marquess to be with her grandfather, decided to take advantage of the respite to dry her hair which had gotten slightly wet. She removed the cap and pins and knelt before the fire, loosening the heavy hair with her fingers in lieu of a brush.
Thus it was that the marquess discovered her ten minutes later as he quietly entered the room. He stopped at sight of the kneeling figure and his eyes widened on beholding the heavy curtain of hair falling well below her waist. “Like black velvet,” he thought involuntarily, “with red lights from the fire.” It was unlikely she heard his softly indrawn breath, but she paused suddenly in the middle of a graceful gesture with both hands gathering together the loose tresses, and glanced over her shoulder. As their eyes met he thought she stiffened for an instant, but her face wore its customary expressionless mask when looking at him and her voice was as cool and unruffled as ever.
“Come in, my lord. I beg pardon for my dishabille. I thought you were with my grandfather and seized the opportunity to dry my hair.” She had risen to her feet in one swift movement during this speech and was deftly twisting and pinning up her hair.
“Not at all, my dear Lady Marianne. Our acquaintance is progressing by leaps and bounds. What matters a little hair drying between ... friends?”
The oblique reference to the enforced proximity of the ride home and the slight pause before the last word grated on Marianne’s nerves, but she made no comment except to indicate his coat lying on a table beside an upholstered settee. As he shrugged into the perfectly fitting coat of brown superfine, she had to admit such a beautifully cut garment was unlikely to have come from the hands of a provincial tailor.
“Come, sit down. I wish to speak to you.”
If the sudden abandonment of his suave civility surprised her, she gave no sign of it as she obediently settled herself in a capacious chair with intricately carved arms and legs, and waited quietly while he prowled briefly around the room before selecting a chair opposite her.
“Who manages the farm for your grandfather? Margery’s husband?”
“No, I do.”
There was no elaboration even though the silence was deafening and his eyes frankly disbelieving. Marianne, preoccupied with her own thoughts, turned startled eyes to his when she found her hands seized and examined minutely. Her attempts to tug them away were unsuccessful, but after a thorough study he calmly released them.
“Small but capable hands, I agree, with nicely shaped fingers and nails, but much too brown and much less soft than those of a lady of quality.”
The hands in question curled defensively in her lap.
“I am not a lady of quality!” she flashed, for once allowing the irritation he provoked to appear in her face. “I am a farmer.”
“You are a lady of quality and your farming days are over.”
“Temporarily,” she put in acidly.
He ignored this thrust. “When you see Margery’s husband tonight, tell him to hire whatever help he may need to keep the farm operating at its present high level of efficiency.”
She ignored both the implied compliment and the mocking little bow that accompanied it, and merely raised her chin a trifle, looking at him steadily with unfriendly eyes.
“Is there someone who can wait on you during the trip to Somerset?”
Her eyes widened at the abrupt change of subject but her comprehension was swift.
“No, and in any case I do not require a lady’s maid to assist me into my clothes.” Her chin tilted still more as one lifted eyebrow conveyed his opinion of her clothes. They had certainly taken the gloves off in this discussion, she thought suddenly with wry humor. However his next words curtained any inclination toward amusement.
“That of course is for you to decide, but you certainly must have some respectable woman to accompany you.”
“Why?”
“You will of course correct me if I am wrong, but surely, my dear Lady Marianne,” he drawled hatefully, “even in the West Riding a lady does not travel unaccompanied with a man who is not her husband or a close relative?”
Only the bitter knowledge that she had invited this set-down enabled Marianne to keep her countenance and preserve that expressionless mien she had instinctively realized was displeasing to him, though whether to his masculine vanity or sense of power she did not yet know. She could not prevent a slight betraying rise of color, however, and as the silence lengthened, felt constrained to break it.
“Clara cannot leave Grandpere and I do not know any other women.”
“Perhaps Margery might welcome the extra money. I would pay her well.”
“Unthinkable. She would never leave the children, especially with the baby ailing.”
“Well then, ask one of your women friends to recommend a temporary abigail.”
“I have no women friends except Margery.”
His eyes narrowed and a small line appeared between his brows. “Do you mean me to comprehend that you are not upon ordinary visiting terms with the local matrons or farmer’s wives?”
“Well, you see, we did not come here until after Grandmere died when I was twelve years old. There was no woman in the house to call upon. Grandpere, as you may have guessed, is not a particularly social being, although the dearest man alive, and consequently I do not have any female friends.” There was a tender expression on her usually impassive face when speaking of her grandfather and certainly no regret or complaint in her voice, but the marquess’ brisk tones softened somewhat as he murmured:
“A lonely life for a young girl.”
“Oh no, pray, do not think it. I had Grandpere and the rector, who is Grandpere’s greatest friend and mine also, and Jack of course. And in the last few years Margery and Jonathan and the children too. I have never been lonely except just at first after Grandmere’s death.”
“Who is Jack?”
“Jack is Squire Richmond’s son. Grandpere tutored him until he went to Cambridge—in fact we shared lessons for years and I was forever visiting the Manor while Mrs. Richmond was alive.”
“Do you have some idea of marrying th
is Jack?”
This time one of her delicate black brows arched, clearly conveying her opinion of such an impertinent question, and she vouchsafed no reply but continued to look at him steadily. For some reason he preferred to delay the confirmation of a strong suspicion that she was so entirely lacking in the decorum and training expected of a young female as actually to engage in a staring contest with a gentleman. He explained a trifle hastily:
“My position as your trustee gives me certain ... er ... rights in your life. The marriage settlement for instance will be arranged by me and it...”
“Well, I do not intend to marry so that need not trouble you,” she interrupted coolly. “When do you wish to leave?”
“As soon as we may engage an abigail for you. Perhaps the rector will know of someone.”
But in the end it was Jack Richmond to whom they were indebted for the solution to this irksome problem. He came that afternoon to Crestview Farm to verify the wild rumors circulating widely in the district that a London lord had come amongst honest country folk to remove old Sean O’Doyle’s granddaughter, who had turned out to be a titled lady. Upon receiving confirmation on all the essentials from Marianne herself, his honest face became troubled and vaguely unhappy. He and his tutor’s granddaughter had been the best of friends for almost ten years, and during his time at Cambridge it had been her companionship that he had come to miss most. Only three and twenty himself, he had as yet given little thought to marriage and had been content to go along in the familiar pattern of many years’ standing, but now he felt as though an enemy had deliberately set about to destroy the design of his future.
“Do you wish to go amongst the nobility, Marianne?” he asked bluntly, studying her anxiously with candid blue eyes.
“Not in the least, but Grandpere is determined that I should seize this opportunity to live the sort of life he says my birth entitles me to lead. I cannot convince him that I am completely content with the life I lead now.” She sighed deeply. “He has made my consent a test of filial obligation. Never before has he demanded anything of me, so I must obey him in this; but, Jack, I do so hate to leave him. You will not neglect to call often, will you, and if he seems at all unhappy you must promise to write to me immediately.”
“Of course I will, and the rector too will bear him company often. He is bound to miss you of course, but if he is so determined to have you go then you must bow to his wish. How long do you mean to stay in Somerset?”
“As brief a time as possible,” she answered with tightened lips.
“And when do you go?”
“Ah, there’s the rub. The marquess insists that I must have a woman to accompany me on the journey.” She ignored his surprised, “Well, naturally,” and continued. “But I do not know of anyone who might be available. He intends to ask the rector’s advice.”
“I can help you there, I believe,” Jack answered unexpectedly. “The Abbingdons’ former governess is traveling to Bath to take up a new position. Bella Abbingdon said she was to leave on tomorrow’s stage. She was ecstatic over the prospect of getting rid of her at long last, says she’s excessively hen-witted and a long-winded bore into the bargain.”
“Thank you so much,” Marianne said dryly. “Not that it matters how uncongenial we find each other for a three-day journey. The marquess is already chafing at the thought of a prolonged stay in the wilds of Yorkshire.”
“How unpardonably rude of me to have displayed such rank ingratitude for Yorkshire hospitality, if I did so,” interjected a suave voice from the open doorway. As he strolled languidly into the room, he observed the familiar frozen lifelessness slide down over the girl’s features, but she betrayed neither embarrassment nor apology as she made the two men known to each other. She watched with a supercritical eye but could detect nothing of patronage in the marquess’ manner toward the younger man. Once again those perfect manners were very much in evidence.
While the gentlemen indulged in a few moments’ desultory conversation, Marianne noted with irrational satisfaction that, although Jack could not compete with the sartorial splendor of a London buck, his neat appearance and well set up figure were not cast into the shade by the elegant marquess. The appearance of both men gave pleasing evidence of robust health and natural athletic ability. Jack was not quite so tall as the marquess but his shoulders were every bit as broad and his carriage was graceful and erect. She told herself that although his features did not possess the classic perfection of those of the marquess, she much preferred his open expressive mien to that satirically smiling yet unrevealing mask habitually adorning the latter’s handsome countenance. She grudgingly admitted that gold-streaked, dark blond hair and light brown eyes, vividly contrasting with tanned skin, rendered the marquess’ coloring more spectacular than Jack’s ruddy-faced, brown-haired and blue-eyed combination, but was confident that in every human quality and personality trait Jack would have the edge. Content with the results of her silent comparison, she interrupted their discussion of the fishing in the area to inform the marquess of the possibility of securing the services of the Abbingdons’ former governess as a traveling companion.
The marquess expressed suitable appreciation for this information and accepted Jack’s offer of an immediate introduction to Miss Twistleton.
After this, events moved with astonishing rapidity as the marquess demonstrated an organizational ability that would have been heartily welcome in the military or civil service. Somewhat bemused by the entire situation, Marianne allowed herself to be maneuvered into the niche prepared for her by her efficient trustee, scarcely demurring even when he ordered her to pack a wardrobe sufficient only for the trip, remarking carelessly that his mother would see to her outfitting immediately on her arrival in Somerset. Truth to tell, she barely absorbed any information concerning her proposed visit, being almost totally. involved with the imminent pain of parting from her grandfather for the first time in her twenty-two years. She accomplished her minimal packing mechanically while she devoted her mental energies to enumerating a long list of instructions and reminders to Clara concerning the diet, comfort, and well-being of her grandfather during her absence. For the remainder of the day and evening she went about her allotted tasks as absently as a sleepwalker, only surfacing briefly when Jonathan arrived to discuss the running of the farm. Even in this sphere the marquess’ suggestion prevailed and Jonathan assured her he would have no trouble hiring sufficient labor as it became necessary.
Thus it was not surprising that, as the moment for final good-byes arrived, scarcely thirty-six hours after his arrival in the district, Justin should be feeling well satisfied and in command of the situation.
Alas that these agreeable sentiments should prove no more than fond illusions, destined for extinction before even the second stop for a change of horses.
CHAPTER FOUR
Marianne’s air of bemused compliance did not survive the short drive to the post road. The initial period was spent in a silent struggle to suppress the unhappy tears she was determined not to shed in the presence of the hateful marquess. Consequently she fixed a somewhat fierce scowl upon her face and stared rigidly out of the window, responding in monosyllables to Miss Twistleton’s diffident conversational overtures. After a time the latter, thus rebuffed, turned to the marquess with determinedly agreeable though slightly desperate efforts to put a good face on an awkward situation.
“I daresay the poor child is feeling wretchedly unhappy leaving home for the first time. Such a pity. But one comprehends perfectly, of course. I well remember leaving to take up my first post, not that the situations were truly comparable, of course. I had no close relative living, merely an aunt who was not really an aunt at all but only a sort of cousin—but I called her aunt, you see, since I was living under her protection until I was old enough to take up a position. Naturally there was not the same degree of attachment as in the case of this dear child and her grandfather, but one experiences such a sense of strangeness at partings and even
a touch of fear for the future.” She emitted a deprecating little laugh and flashed an apologetic glance at the marquess, whose countenance was taking on a rigid set and hurried on.
“Not that I meant to imply that Lady Marianne need fear the future. I am persuaded your dear mama will make her most welcome, but one cannot deny that the strangeness of a new experience can give rise to doubts and put one out of countenance for a time until one can adjust to the idea. But what am I about,” she cried with another little laugh, “letting my tongue run on like a fiddlestick, just as if my dearest friend, Miss Denton, had not told me times without number that many gentlemen simply cannot abide female chatter.” Her hopeful glance at the marquess was met with a laconic, “Just so.”
She nodded sagely, “Yes, I well remember Mr. Atwell, the husband of my first employer and a truly estimable man in most respects, but whenever the ladies were gathered together he would pick up a book and simply hide behind it, pretending to hear nothing of the conversation. It was often necessary to address a remark to him several times before he would be so obliging as to respond.” She tittered again. “How upset Mrs. Atwell would become, but I always told her one cannot change a gentleman’s nature; one simply has to put up with their odd humors and habits as, of course, they are obliged to endure ours.” She was reminded then of an odd quirk in her second employer’s behavior and was immediately launched into an anecdote relating to this.
Marianne, whose struggle to keep back the demeaning tears had left her filled with black resentment toward the author of her troubles, gradually became aware of the strong current of suppressed irritation emanating from the marquess, and as the endless flow of inconsequential chatter from their traveling companion began to penetrate her self-absorption, of the reason for his somewhat glazed expression. Once he glanced her way with something suspiciously akin to appeal in the light brown eyes. Hastily she averted her face to hide her amusement, and passingly considered a pretense of sleep which should effectively abandon him to this very fitting punishment for his attitude when she had questioned the necessity of a chaperon. For a short time she did actually impose the stillness of complete relaxation on her features, but presently she decided she must intervene to prevent the marquess from giving the garrulous Miss Twistleton a stinging set-down. She was basically a kind-hearted girl and though no more content with this enforced companionship than the marquess seemed to be, she strongly suspected Miss Twistleton’s mindless meanderings stemmed from a nervous awe at finding herself in his intimidating presence, and from a real dread of a prolonged silence. Clearly it behooved her to alter the pattern and quickly. It may have gone against the grain to rescue the detestable marquess, but she shuddered to contemplate the scene should an ill-considered masculine action cause Miss Twistleton’s sense of inferiority to erupt in a crise de nerfs. The taut little woman obviously prided herself on her sensibility, and her suffering would be in proportion to the fancied delicacy of her nerves.
