‘Hem.’ Jem went bright red and looked at the wall. ‘I say, Marianne,’ he broke out a moment later, ‘you shouldn’t have to be doing all this.’
‘All what?’ asked Marianne, wondering whether Jem could have seen her dusting as he approached the house.
But Jem, obviously embarrassed, was being even less coherent than usual. ‘All this,’ he said vaguely. ‘At least, that’s what m’mother says. And I agree,’ he added hastily.
Marianne, usually able to follow Jem’s somewhat incoherent speeches, was mystified.
‘Looking after everything. Running the whole show,’ he explained suddenly. ‘Need a man to do that kind of thing. Two estates. Joining one another. Join at Nether Field. At the corners. Can’t say they don’t. May not join anywhere else, but join at Nether Field. Oh yes. So what d’you think?’
He looked at her hopefully.
Marianne was at a loss. Then the light dawned. 'You’re offering me Bates,’ she said. She was touched. Bates was the Cosgrove estate manager, and Jem, it seemed, had been sent to offer her his services.
‘Bates? Good God. Can’t mean to say you’d marry Bates?’ asked Jem, amazed.
‘Marry . . . ?’ asked Marianne, startled.
‘Not the thing,’ said Jem, shaking his head. ‘Not the thing at all. Can’t marry Bates, Marianne. Good man, I’ll grant you. One of the best. But got a wife. And children. Any number of ‘em. Ten, there were, at the last count. And still rising.’
Marianne smiled broadly. ‘I wasn’t thinking of marrying him. I thought you were offering me his services to help me manage the estate!’
‘Oh!’ Jem slapped his thigh and roared with laughter. ‘You thought m’father meant to share Bates! Lord, no, Marianne! M’father would never share Bates.’ He suddenly sobered. ‘Don’t mean “Marianne”. Mustn’t call you “Marianne”. Got to call you Miss Travis. M’mother says so. M’mother’s never wrong. Though why in Hades I should call you Miss Travis when I’ve known you since forever’s beyond me. Still, better do what m’mother says.’
He paused, obviously having lost the thread of his conversation.
Marianne prompted him kindly. ‘You said your father doesn’t want to share Bates?’
‘No, Marianne – Miss Travis – dash it, Marianne – that’s right. M’father don’t want to share Bates. He wants to share me. Well, not share me exactly . . . Lord, I’m making a mull of this,’ said Jem, tugging at his cravat. ‘Jennifer said I would. Looks like she’s right. Damn fine girl Jennifer. Oh! dash it! Didn’t mean to say damn! Told me to go down on one knee or some such thing. Don’t half like it. Look a fool. But the ladies like it.’ And to Marianne’s amusement he knelt down in front of her.
‘Oh, don’t Jem,’ she said, much to his relief. ‘Do get up, I beg of you. I’m very fond of you Jem, you know that, but if you mean to ask me to marry you I’m afraid I must refuse.’
‘Thought you would,’ said Jem, gratefully getting up off his knees. ‘Not dashing like Ravensford. Don’t know how to sweep a girl off her feet.’
‘Oh, Jem it isn’t that,’ said Marianne, whilst being uncomfortably aware that his words held far more than a grain of truth. ‘It’s just that we have been such good friends for so many years that it would be a shame to spoil our friendship. I like you very much, Jem, but I can’t marry you. We just wouldn’t suit.’
‘Ah well, can’t say I haven’t tried,’ he said philosophically. ‘Pity, though, Marianne. Devilish pretty girl, you know.’
‘You’ll find another devilish pretty girl, Jem. One who can love you in a way I can’t.’
‘Might have something there,’ said Jem, whose feelings, whilst honest, did not run deep. ‘Might find one at Ravensford’s do.’
Marianne looked at him enquiringly.
‘Got an ice yacht,’ Jem explained.
‘Who has?’ Marianne asked, finding it difficult, as usual, to follow Jem’s rambling speech.
‘Lord Ravensford. Having a party. Sail the ice yacht on the lake. Frozen,’ he explained helpfully. ‘Got the invitation this morning. Reminds me. Got one for you.’ He pulled a crumpled card out of his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Servant came round with them. Said I’d bring yours. Coming here anyway. Save the man a trip.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ She turned the card thoughtfully between her fingers. ‘However, I’m not sure I shall be able to go.’ Her feelings for Lord Ravensford were becoming deeper and more difficult to control, and she wasn’t sure it was wise to see any more of him than was necessary, however tempting it might be.
Jem’s face fell. ‘Got to,’ he said. ‘M’family’ll be there. Got to tell ‘em I didn’t make a mull of it. Otherwise m’mother’ll tell me to offer for you again.’
‘Oh dear, Jem, are you sure? I’m not a good match, you know. I don’t have any dowry to speak of. Can’t you persuade her it’s better this way?’
Jem shook his head. ‘Can’t say it’s not a good match. Old family, Marianne. Good stock. Good match without a dowry. Devilish pretty girl. Can’t tell her it’s not a good thing for you, either. Not much of a catch, but still, husband to take care of you. Make life easier. Use the carriage. No more horse and cart. Good thing all round. Or so m’mother will say. Likes the idea, don’t you know?’
Marianne sighed. It seemed there was nothing for it. She would have to go to Lord Ravensford’s gathering and convince the Cosgroves that Jem had done the thing properly, but that she had still refused to marry him.
‘You’ll come?’ asked Jem hopefully.
Marianne nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Good show. Should be interesting,’ he said, by way of consolation. ‘Don’t have to spend the whole afternoon with m’mother. Just enough to convince her I did it right. Down on one knee, don’t you know?’
Marianne smiled. ‘You did it very well. And I’m grateful to you, Jem. Truly I am. You will make some young lady an admirable husband.’
Jem went pink. ‘Pish,’ he said, but nonetheless looked pleased. ‘Well, must be off,’ he said, obviously deciding that as his task had been done he should not trouble Marianne further. ‘Tell Ravensford you’ll come, shall I?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Good. No, don’t trouble,’ he said, as Marianne accompanied him to the door of the drawing-room. ‘See m’self out.’
‘And what was all that about?’ asked Trudie, coming in a minute later, having just seen Jem leave the house.
‘He came to propose to me,’ said Marianne with a sigh.
Trudie nodded sagely.
‘Trudie, you can’t say you were expecting it?’
‘And why not? Jem’s of an age to be married, and you should have been married long ago, Miss Marianne. If you’re not careful you’ll end up on the shelf.’
‘I don’t intend to get married just so that I won’t end up a spinster,’ Marianne returned with spirit.
‘No. It’s love or nothing for you, Miss Marianne,’ said Trudie, looking worried. ‘You turned down three offers in London at you come-out, and all of them from rich and handsome gentlemen, and now you’re turning down Jem. But you can’t go on turning down gentlemen for ever, or it will be nothing, Miss Marianne.’
Marianne sighed. She went over to the window and looked out at the gardens, which twinkled prettily under their coating of frost and ice. Love or nothing. Yes, it had always been that way with her. She had received a number of offers from unexceptionable gentlemen during her London Seasons - paid for by the kindness of her London aunt - but had turned them down. Why? she wondered. Perhaps it was because they were all unexceptionable gentlemen. They would never have wanted her to lend a hand in running her family estate, and they would have been horrified at the idea of her rescuing a man from a mantrap. And as for her bandaging his leg . . . ! No, it would never have done. She could not have accepted any of them. Because, as they were unexceptionable gentlemen, they would have expected her to be an unexceptionable lady. And whilst she was most assuredly a lady, she could
never be a milk-and-water miss who would sit sketching and sewing all day long. She simply had too much spirit.
And now she had turned down Jem. Dear, sweet, bumbling Jem. But she had had no choice. She could never have accepted Jem, not even if he had proposed to her before she had met Lord Ravensford. And now . . . Her thoughts went to the dark man who was never far from her thoughts. Now it was impossible.
* * * *
The carriage bowled along the drive, making for Billingsdale Manor. When last she had come this way, Marianne had been travelling in a horse-drawn cart, but this time she was arriving in style. The carriage, scrubbed and polished, was pulled by a team of horses, their manes and tails plaited, their gleaming bodies beautifully groomed. The fact that the horses were usually used for pulling ploughs was one which Marianne hoped no one would remark.
The carriage pulled up before the door. The step was let down and Marianne tripped out, finding it impossible not to think of what had happened on her first visit to this same house. But this time she was not left to wander in alone and unannounced. She was greeted at the door by Figgs, who led her through a hallway lined with footmen, to the drawing-room which, unlike her first visit, was full of the sound of chatter. Miss Stock had again kindly agreed to be her companion for the evening and act as her chaperon, and followed Marianne into the house.
Once divested of her cloak, Marianne was dressed in a simple yet becoming gown of gentian blue which matched the colour of her eyes, tied about the waist with a white satin sash. The neckline was square and fashionably, though decorously, low. The sleeves were long and close-fitting, and ornamented at the bottom with three little buttons of mother-of-pearl. A blue ribbon was threaded through her lustrous curls, setting off their glossy black.
She saw the Cosgroves straight away. There, too, were the Lentons, the three girls, Amelia, Cordelia and Lobelia, all giggling mightily at something Lord Ravensford had just said. And there was Lord Ravensford himself, leaning negligently against the Adam fireplace which was decorated with a line of nymphs.
It was the first time, apart from the Cosgroves’ ball, that she had really seen him in company, Marianne realised. And it was the first time she had seen him playing host to a gathering in his own - albeit leased - home. It came as something as a shock to her to realise how at ease he seemed, particularly as he was almost entirely surrounded by females. And it also came as a reminder that she hardly knew him. It would not do for her to refine too much on the time they had spent together, the things he had said or the way he had behaved, she realised. She would be a fool if she read anything more into it than the attentions of a man who was, by his own admission, anything but a gentleman, and who probably forgot all about her the moment she was out of his sight.
‘Miss Travis,’ he said, coming towards her with his half-mocking smile. ‘I’m so glad you could come.’ His eyes roamed over her, lingering on the ribbon which accentuated the blue highlights in her hair, and on the bodice of her dress, which sculpted her curves.
‘Lord Ravensford.’ On guard against his undoubtedly wicked charm, and against her own unruly feelings, she returned his greeting with a politely formal manner.
He lifted his eyebrows, but made no remark on her cool air. ‘And Miss Stock,’ he said courteously, turning to her companion and kissing the spinster’s hand.
‘Oh, Lord Ravensford, so very happy . . . ’ mumbled Miss Stock, quite overcome.
But when he turned to Marianne she knew he had noticed her coolness and that he was determined to make her pay, because the kiss he bestowed on her hand burned her even through her long white glove.
‘We are to have an interesting afternoon as I understand it,’ said Miss Stock breathlessly, as he finally let go of Marianne’s hand. ‘An ice yacht, I hear?’
‘Yes,’ he said; speaking to Miss Stock, drawing his eyes away from Marianne’s.
‘And what is an ice yacht?’ Marianne asked, wishing he would not look at her as though he was undressing her with his eyes.
‘Why, the same as any other yacht; or at least, the principle is the same. An ordinary yacht carries people over the water; an ice yacht carries them over the ice. Shall you like to sail in it?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t know it would be big enough for a party,’ she said, surprised; for although an ordinary yacht could take any number of people on board she had the feeling that an ice yacht, because of its limited use, would be much smaller.
‘It isn’t. But it is big enough for two.’
His wicked smile invited her to protest, but she refused to rise to his bait, and he turned back to her companion.
‘Miss Stock. You would not object to a turn in the yacht, I’ll be bound?’ he asked.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ began Miss Stock, not sure whether to be flattered or scandalised. Even at the age of fifty, the idea of being in an intimate situation with Lord Ravensford was not one she could contemplate with equanimity: Lord Ravensford was so undeniably male.
‘Marianne!’
Jennifer’s halloo fortunately saved the good Miss Stock from the tricky situation, as all eyes turned towards Jennifer.
‘Marianne. Jem said you were coming. Did he really go down on one knee?’
‘Not here, Jennifer,’ said Marianne, feeling it would not be fair to expose poor Jem’s proposal to Lord Ravensford’s mocking, and yet surprisingly interested, eye.
‘Can I go on the yacht?’ asked Jennifer, young enough to flit from one topic to another, and gauche enough to find nothing wrong in it. Or in asking such outright questions.
‘Perhaps,’ said Lord Ravensford, with the air of one speaking to a child. ‘We’ll see.’
Mrs Cosgrove, following her bouncing daughter, crossed the room more sedately. ‘Marianne. I’m so glad to see you, my dear. Jem said you intended to come.’ Mrs Cosgrove, however, being more sophisticated than Jennifer, did not ask the question she was obviously wanting to ask, preferring to wait until later, when she could speak to Marianne alone.
They fell into general conversation and Lord Ravensford was quickly reclaimed by the Lenton girls, who had visibly pouted when he had given his attention to Marianne. But was he enjoying their company, or was he silently laughing at them? Marianne asked herself. A moment later asking herself why she cared.
She turned her attention to the new guests who were just arriving, the Pargeters and Kents, thinking how fortunate it was that, as the party was being hosted by Lord Ravensford, she need have no fear of Mr Windham being one of the guests.
The hubbub grew until at last everyone had arrived and Lord Ravensford announced that the ladies should claim their cloaks and the gentlemen their caped coats as they were about to walk down to the lake.
‘And there is the yacht,’ said Lord Ravensford, as they reached the side of the lake.
It was tied up to the jetty, lying innocently on the surface of the ice. Small and slender, it looked something like a canoe. A sail was tied to a tall mast and flapped in the breeze. ‘It was invented by an American named Booth a few years ago,’ said Lord Ravensford. ‘I’ve made a few modifications to his original design.’ He lifted his head, considering the weather. Waving trees gave sign of the breeze. ‘It should sail well today. There’s enough wind to power it, but not enough to capsize it.’
‘Wouldn’t mind a go on that myself, Ravensford,’ said Henry Kent, who had idled along beside them and was now looking at the ice yacht with interest, walking round it and admiring its construction.
‘Be my guest.’
‘Marianne, my dear,’ came Mrs Cosgrove’s voice, seizing the opportunity to speak to Marianne as Mr Kent asked Lord Ravensford to explain the workings of the yacht. ‘Tell me, how is your dear Papa?’
She drew Marianne aside. Marianne, whilst knowing that Mrs Cosgrove’s questions about her father’s health were just a subterfuge to gain her attention, nevertheless answered with a good grace, and then allowed Mrs Cosgrove to turn the subject round to Jem. Marianne listened patiently whil
st Mrs Cosgrove explained Jem’s worth, and the value of a husband to a young woman with a reclusive father and a missing brother, but whilst agreeing with much of what she said, Marianne nevertheless left her in no doubt that, although she valued Jem as a neighbour and a friend, she could not marry him.
‘He made a mull of it, I suppose,’ said Mrs Cosgrove with a sigh.
‘No, not a bit of it.’ Marianne was loyal to her childhood friend. ‘I just don’t think of Jem in that way. I couldn’t have accepted him, no matter how romantically he’d proposed.’
‘Then it is no use him trying again?’ asked Mrs Cosgrove.
Marianne knew she had to be firm. ‘None at all.’
‘Ah! Well,’ sighed Mrs Cosgrove. ‘I suppose it’s for the best. A good solid girl will probably be more suitable, after all. Tell me, what do you think about Susan Kent?’
Happy to praise the stolid young woman, Marianne listened to Mrs Cosgrove’s hopes for her children and then, when Mrs Cosgrove departed, turned her attention back to the lake. Lord Ravensford was demonstrating the ice yacht to young Mr Kent, controlling the precarious looking machine with skilled ease. As she watched him laying back and shifting his weight to control the yacht, Marianne smiled. He was obviously enjoying himself. He looked younger. Almost boyish! Her smile widened. It did her good to see him like this. It showed her another side of his personality.
Realising her smiles were likely to give her away she pulled her cloak closer and determinedly fixed her attention on the yacht, instead of its owner.
The yacht slid across the ice, leaving a wake of churned-up ice behind it.
The young men in the party were all eager to have a go, and after Lord Ravensford had demonstrated the workings of the yacht they took it in turns to sail across the lake. Once they had tried it out the ladies were offered a turn at being a passenger. There was little room on the craft, it being low and slim, but there was just enough room for a second person to sit beside the first. One by one, the bolder of the ladies took a turn, some with their husbands, others with their brothers. And then Lord Ravensford turned to Miss Stock. ‘Miss Stock, you have not yet taken a turn on the yacht. As your brother is not here you will allow me, as your host, I hope, to display its virtues?’
Anything But a Gentleman Page 8
