“I hope so,” he said, more cheerfully, drawing another meaning from her words. “If you but have a child soon, he will reconcile himself to the marriage, and settle down to be a good husband and father. I know the lad, he but needs responsibility to mature him. Look how his Army tasks helped to make him more grave.”
She turned away. He did not understand, nor comprehend how hurt she felt. She did not want to remain where she was a heavy duty and responsibility to a man. No matter how much she loved Malcolm, it would be very bitter to remain under those conditions. He did not see how her woman’s heart yearned to be loved and adored. Not just the physical passion that Malcolm felt for her. He could feel that for any attractive woman.
No, she wanted to be loved and wanted and needed for herself. She knew there were marriages of convenience, she had witnessed them, and sometimes they worked out well, when there was affection and respect. But she felt too humiliated at his obvious attentions to Deidre. There was his previous reputation to consider, he was a rake, a gambler.
What if she did have a child, and once the novelty had worn off, Malcolm should run off about his own amusements? She would be left to raise the child, endure the amused comments of persons such as Deidre and her society.
No, no, far better to be away from them all. She could obtain another position such as that with Mrs Fitzhugh, where she was honoured and respected, a governess to young children, helping their minds expand and mature. That would be a noble task, enough for a lifetime of work. And satisfying, far more than to be a bed-partner of a man who grossly neglected her by day.
But she said no more of this to the earl. She enjoyed the visit to his tenants, rocked the baby in her arms, and kissed his petal-soft cheek. She talked of gardens to Mrs Forsythe while the earl discussed the spring crops with Mr Forsythe, and where the cattle should be moved for better grazing.
On the way home, she spoke with the earl brightly about the matters of the estate. They needed more feed for the cattle, they might plant more fields in grain. The apples had done well, the trees should be pruned yet again.
“I wish Malcolm took your interest in this,” he said finally, as they drove smartly into the gravelled driveway leading up to the castle. “What a satisfaction to know that the next generation shall carry on the work! My father often grew indifferent, I had a great task bringing all up to snuff after I inherited. Eustace was not strong, yet he had an interest in all this. I do hope that Malcolm shall take yet more interest.”
She smiled, and patted his hand and said nothing. Was it in her power to change Malcolm, and get him interested in the work? She doubted it very much.
Her doubts were increased when they entered, to find that Malcolm and Deidre had returned from their drive, bringing a half a dozen young people from the village as their guests for luncheon. The servants were flying about, they had had no warning of the little invasion.
Valerie went to change her sober blue gown for something more elegant, a rose silk with lace about the throat, and then descended to arrange the flowers for the table. The gardener had sent in some of the last roses and pinks.
Malcolm came to the small room off the pantry where she worked, with an apron over her elegant gown. He was obviously angry.
“Here you are! You refuse to ride with me, yet go off in a minute with my father!” he raged. “Do you hate my company so much?”
About to flare back at him, she bit her tongue. Perhaps this was her opportunity. “Malcolm, your father needs much help on the estate. I wish you had come with us today! You would have been able to help in decisions about the fields.”
“I care nothing for the fields! My men are fighting and dying on the Peninsula, and I am unable to join them yet! Have you seen the gazettes from London?”
“No, I have not,” she said quietly. “I shall look them over this afternoon after the guests have departed. Is there … bad news?”
“Bad enough,” he said, and pressed his hand to the scar on his forehead, where a vein throbbed heavily. “Viscount Wellington has had to retreat before the French. They are followed, harassed. No one knows what Wellington is about. All I know is that I should be with my men. I should never have left Portugal, I know it.”
Her gaze was troubled, even as she automatically arranged yellow tea roses with small pale pinks in a low blue porcelain bowl, and then taller spikes of the last columbine in a pair of pale cream porcelain vases. She studied them, head to one side, then adjusted the heather-coloured columbine against the lavender, and thrust some of the deeper rose just below them.
“Very pretty,” said Malcolm, finally, in approval. “You do know how to arrange flowers.”
“Thank you,” she said, with slight irony. She had been arranging the flowers here ever since she had arrived. Had he not ever seen them before? Perhaps he had not noticed, or did not really care what she did in the daytime.
They went in to luncheon, Malcolm in a little better mood. He made them all laugh with some stories of the wars, jests about the language of his men as they fought like tigers. They were not the kind of stories he had told Valerie, of the wounds, the slow dying, when some of his Portuguese spies had been hanged from trees by the French. He gave the impression today that the war was all jokes and comradeship. But she remembered vividly some of the other tales he had told to her alone.
She sat quietly in her place at the earl’s side, and made some conversation with the squire’s son, who was a little more sober and conscientious than his sister and friends. From her experience in the household of the Fitzhughs, she knew what some of his father’s duties were, and was able to speak with him about them, about the village, the school which now thrived.
Deidre, in an ethereal gown of grey gauze with touches of black lace at her throat and wrists, held their attention much of the time with her light brilliant chatter about London. She could tell a story, with wit and elegance, which revealed much of her life. She showed them subtly about what circles she moved in London, as the stories unrolled. She had met the prince regent at a ball, and as he danced with her he had said … Or when the cabinet members had fought their duel, Lady Jersey had informed her sternly of her feelings on the matter … Or an officer friend of hers, a colonel, had begged her to marry him and go to the Peninsula with him, but she could not, of course, though he gave her gifts of jewellery and laces from Spain.
All this, with the lightest of touches, showing how men fell over her, how popular she was, how sought after. Malcolm listened with pleasure, sometimes sending a significant glance at Valerie which she refused to meet. Was this what he expected of her? She had no wish for light flirtations with officers and men of wealth!
The squire’s daughter was all ears, begging humbly for more information. Did one wear black gloves in mourning all the time? Was it proper to ride in the Serpentine with only a groom? At what age could one be presented, and did it take a special invitation of the king or the prince regent?
Deidre talked on and on, holding all their attention in her sparkling face, her vivid blue eyes, the palms of her small hands, delicately making a point with a gesture or wave. The countess beamed on her fondly, and even the earl found her stories of interest.
“And when were you presented?” The squire’s daughter turned eagerly to the silent Valerie. “What happened, when was it?”
Valerie opened her mouth to deny it. Deidre squealed.
“But, of course, she has not been! The Viscountess Grenville has not been presented! How odd! She must be, and before she grows much older! Maman, we must see to it,” and she turned eagerly to the countess. “We must take her to London, polish her up, and present her! Oh, what fun!”
Malcolm took her up on it. “Of course, we must go. It would be jolly, wouldn’t it, Valerie? You shall be presented at the next season. Maman, you could make the arrangements, could you not? We shall open the town house.”
The countess hesitated, then shook her head. “We are still in demi-mourning, Malcolm,” she said. “
I do not think it would be proper. Besides, we are so contented in the country. I do not think I could endure to return to London so soon.”
Deidre’s sparkling face lost some of its joy. “But, Maman … I mean, countess … I beg you … think of Valerie! She should be presented! It is only right! And how she would enjoy London! There is no place like it. You must consider it, please, for Valerie’s sake! She has slaved her fingers to the bone, taking care of Malcolm in his illness, now trotting all about the estate, looking after everyone, working so terribly hard. Does she not deserve a holiday?”
The squire’s son turned to Valerie beside him. Clearly, he said, “But, my lady, you have not said how you feel about it! Does the prospect give you much pleasure?”
“I should not care for it at all,” she said bluntly, and all the table heard her. Some gasped, some smiled. Malcolm shot her an ugly look, and Deidre pouted.
“I must change her mind for her,” said Deidre prettily. “I will talk to her, and tell her of the delights of London society. We have not had a good long talk for such a long time!”
The countess looked very troubled, the earl stern. Malcolm was scowling heavily. The squire’s son rather tactfully turned the conversation to another subject, that of the village school, and Deidre lost interest.
Malcolm came to Valerie that evening in her sitting room, where she was going over an article she was preparing for an editor.
“Scribbling again?” he asked. “You did not even remain to speed our guests on their way!”
She sighed. She had a headache, and she pressed her hand to her forehead. “I remained for three hours, and waited for tea to be served before I excused myself, Malcolm,” she said, with what patience she could muster.
“And you were so rude about Deidre’s suggestion of going to London! Must you be so difficult? It would do Maman a world of good to go off to London, she needs to be brought out of herself, and forget her mourning for Eustace.”
“I cannot see how that can be accomplished by revisiting the unhappy scenes of his fatal illness and death,” she said bluntly. “It cannot help but bring back great sorrow. And your father does not care for London.”
“It would not be so long a visit,” he coaxed, sitting down on the sofa opposite her rosewood desk, and gazing at her from under his long dark lashes. The hazel eyes gleamed. “I can see you now, radiant in a gown of lilac silk, with an overdress of silver gauze, the belle of the ball. You waltz quite well, you know, and you always follow my steps well in the country dances.”
“The waltz is not really proper,” she frowned.
“Oh, come now, do not be a country miss! You would enjoy it, all of London. The book shops, how you would go mad in the crammed book shops! And the plays, we shall go to any play you desire, even though it is so stuffy it makes me fall asleep!”
He was so charming and coaxing that she had to laugh. The prospect of book shops did enthral her. Lady Darlington continued to keep her well stocked, but to see the actual shelves of books, the new ones and the favourites … Her eyes gleamed.
“I should like to see the book shops, and perhaps to meet Lady Darlington, who has been so kind,” she said. “And plays … would you truly take me to see a play or two?”
“I will strike a bargain with you,” he said, with mock solemnity. “For every ball you attend with me, I shall take you to a play. Agreed?”
“Agreed!” she laughed. “But … oh, Malcolm, I truly think your mother does not wish to go.”
“It is a long time until spring. We shall talk to her before then. I merely wished your promise not to oppose the scheme,” he said, more soberly. “I do think it would do Maman good to go to London once more, for the longer she is away, the more she will dread going to our town house where Eustace died. It will hold sad memories for us all. But we must put them behind us and continue to live and enjoy life.”
She wondered if that was his thought or Deidre’s. She fingered her quill thoughtfully.
“Well, you long to return to work,” he said, rising, and coming over to her. He bent over her, lifted a long curl, and put it to his lips. She could feel his warmth behind her. “What are you working on so hard?”
“An article for a magazine, on the education of females,” she said.
He growled, then laughed, and bent and kissed her cheek lingeringly. “Do not work too long, come down early for some sherry before dinner,” he coaxed. “And wear the rose dress with the gold gauze, it is so becoming on you. And my amethysts? Will you?”
She agreed, and he went away. He could be so charming, twisting her around his fingers when he chose. She took the long curl in her fingers, remembering his touch. Oh, how difficult it was, to be a female!
She drew a fresh sheet of paper towards her, and began to write, slowly, then more swiftly.
For a female who is faced with the choice of a marriage to someone disagreeable to her, there is no greater satisfaction than the fact that she can say “no” without being a burden to her relatives. An educated female can obtain a post as a governess, a teacher, even a worker of accounts. I believe that, in the future, more and more ladies will seek out lines of employment. It is best for them to be prepared for this.
I suggest strongly that a well-rounded education for a woman can be her salvation. Rather than to tie herself to a bully of a man, or a weakling, or a drunkard, she may choose to remain free of such entanglements. She may, by virtue of education in mathematics, reading, writing, literature and languages, outfit herself in such a manner that she may apply for a well-paying post, and manage to keep herself, modestly as befits a lady …
The ideas flowed. She became absorbed and stopped only when Glenda tapped at the door and entered. “It is time for you to dress for dinner, my lady, had you forgotten?”
Valerie sighed, stood up and stretched herself. “The rose gown with the gold gauze, Glenda,” she said and smiled at the maid’s concealed surprise. “And the amethysts. If I hurry, I can be down in time for sherry.”
She was down before seven o’clock. Deidre was already there, lovely in her favourite sheer chiffon, with diamonds sparkling at her wrists and ears. She was laughing, telling them of some event. She paused to gaze at Valerie as she entered.
“But how charming you look tonight, Valerie!” she said, so sincerely that Valerie might have believed her had she not seen the cold look of the blue eyes. A flicker of the long lashes, and the look was gone. “A good dressmaker in London, and you shall be all the rage! I do beg you to consider going to London in the spring, for the season!”
“That is up to the family, Lady Deidre,” said Valerie serenely. “Yes, thank you, Malcolm,” she said, as he nodded to the sherry bottle in his hand. He poured some into a tall slim glass for her, she accepted it and smiled up at him. Immediately he perched on the arm of her chair, with his own glass in hand.
The earl gazed at them in genial satisfaction. “Perhaps we shall go for a few months,” he said. “We will think about it. After all, Valerie should be presented! And she does deserve a holiday. I never thought to have a daughter who would please me so well, eh, Hannah?”
The countess smiled and nodded, but with more reserve. “Valerie has been a great comfort to us,” she said. “And Deidre also, of course.”
Behind Deidre, Louis Kenyon stood near the table of sherry. He grinned, raised his glass to Valerie in a mute salute. She gave him a slight nod. Maybe this was the tack to try!
Malcolm put his hand on Valerie’s ear. “I like those amethysts on you very much, darling,” he said. “You shall also have the diamonds, I am having them reset for you in a lighter style. Should be ready for the holidays, eh, Louis? Mother, do you think lilac suits Valerie best, or blue, or rose?”
“With her dark hair and brown eyes, she can wear all the colours, my dear,” said the countess, fluttering her hands a little helplessly. “I am amazed that you are at last noticing a lady’s dress! You may be willing to outfit her then, for her presentation! I really
ought to write after Christmas to Lady Darlington and beg for the latest patterns. Valerie should take more interest in clothing.”
Deidre sat silently, saying little, her long lashes down over her blue eyes. It was hard to know what she was thinking, but Valerie did notice one small fist clenched on her knee, before the older girl smoothed it out again, so the long slim fingers lay quietly on her lap.
Malcolm came to Valerie’s bed again that night, the first time in a week. He came with passion, silence, and a great fiery need for her that seemed to burn them both. When it was over, he lay back and breathed great gulps of air. She was out of breath also, he had practically squeezed all air from her.
However, when she had recovered a little, and his arm stole about her comfortably, she snuggled up to him, her head on his chest. It was sturdier, he was filling out somewhat with the rest, the outdoor riding and walking, the good food.
She laid her hand on his heart, felt the steady rapid beating of it. If it only beat for her, how happy she would be! He did like her, he showed it. Perhaps liking and passion could be enough. If she had a child also, they might make a marriage that would last.
“Valerie,” he grumbled, sleepily. “You’re sweet, you know it? When you’re not stiff and angry, that is.”
She laughed a little mischievously. “And you’re sweet also, when you aren’t yelling at me, and ordering me about!”
His arm tightened for a moment, then relaxed. “Little devil,” he said, and bent to kiss her mouth again, suddenly hard and honey-sweet. His hand slid up and down her arm, in a sleepy caress, then he yawned, and fell asleep.
CHAPTER 10
The holidays saw them all more cheerful. The countess consented to put off her black, and went to grey and even cream, and the earl expressed his satisfaction to Valerie.
“Dear Eustace is gone. However, he would never wish for her to weep and mourn for ever. We still have Malcolm and you, my dear, and the hope of grandchildren. We must be more cheerful!”
Amethyst Love: A passionate Regency romance Page 12
