The Lies of Lord John

by Fiona Monroe

  "Mrs. Johnson's shop is on Castle Street," she said, for when they reached Princes Street, he turned right instead of left.

  "Have you seen the new church over here?" He gestured to the bucolic end of Princes Street beyond the edge of Charlotte Square, where the town ended in meadows and woods.

  "Oh, the Episcopal church? My uncle says it was a pity they felled so many trees to build it, but of course, I have not been inside."

  "Heaven forefend, eh?"

  "What do you mean, sir?" She had a sudden qualm. "You are not Episcopalian, are you?" She knew nothing very much of great families. She had read that some English noble families were still Papists, rebels who had remained loyal to Rome throughout the Reformation. She had no idea whether there were any in Scotland.

  "Great Heavens, no. The Dunwoodies are staunch allies of the Kirk. But when you have lived in a Catholic country, these divisions between the Protestant churches, which we in Scotland make so much of—they seem trivial. According to the majority of the rest of the world, we are all going to Hell anyway."

  "Do you believe that?" Margaret asked, feeling a prickle of fascination. What if he were a secret Papist? He might have been converted while out there.

  "Me? No, of course not. But the Romans aren't going to that place, either. There are plenty of sincere, holy Christians sworn to Rome, and it's abominable that whole nations in the north of Europe would consign them to eternal damnation."

  He spoke with some heat then grinned and added more lightly, "At any rate, let's risk our Presbyterian souls by strolling in the grounds of the Episcopalian church. It is a charming spot, and we had better enjoy it before they dig it up and build a terrace there."

  They were not, then, heading in the direction of the haberdashery. It took a minute or two to cross Princes Street, which was thronged with carriages and carts, and then they found themselves walking under the shade of some old elm trees which had escaped the felling around the new, raw-looking church building. There was no graveyard as yet, as the church had been built only the year before. Despite its proximity to the bustle of Princes Street, the churchyard was an oasis of tranquillity.

  Lord John halted then, looked around, and let go of her arm. "Miss Bell, I would be honest with you."

  "I appreciate honesty, your lordship."

  "Very well then. I have no idea what you may have heard of me."

  "A little, sir. All to your advantage."

  "Oh, really? Then your informants have not been honest with you, so we are not off to a good start. I am one of many younger sons of a very rich and distinguished nobleman, but I am not, myself, either rich or distinguished. The whole Dunwoodie estate is entailed to the next male heir, and the present Marquess is a babe in arms. I have no fortune of my own, nor any profession, and I will be frank with you—I have quarrelled with my family. Until such time as I can appeal to the infant heart of my noble nephew, I do not see much hope of reconciliation. I am no great catch." He smiled. "However, if you would do me the very great honour of becoming my wife, I can promise you the freedom to live as you please."

  It was the third time she had been on the receiving end of a proposal of marriage. On the previous two occasions, she had enjoyed the drama of rejecting the gentlemen more than she would have admitted to herself at the time. Both had been the climax of several weeks of coy social encounters, hesitant flirtation, and many hours of discussion and anticipation with Emmeline. Neither had been unexpected, but had had the inevitability and satisfaction of the final act of a play.

  Not that this proposal was unexpected, either, thanks to Emmeline's letter; Margaret wondered in distraction what she would have thought, what she might have said, had she not been prepared in her mind. She had unconsciously turned from him, moved away from him, and found herself moved by a curious internal shaking sensation. It was like the tremors of a fever, a physical trembling deep inside her body, unconnected to any identifiable emotion. She had, indeed, no idea how she felt, and scarcely any greater understanding of what she thought.

  It was so very strange. Mr. McAllister's sincere, gruff, stumbling offer, and Mr. Lawson's wittily-written letter—for she had not forgotten the young gentleman's name, nor his rather sweet face—had both been very much in earnest, had both arisen from real feelings on the gentlemen's side. Yet their effect on her had been to make her feel that she was acting a part in a play, and she had not somehow been able to take that part particularly seriously. She recalled going into gales of laughter with Emmeline, once her refusal was safely delivered on both occasions.

  This offer, though courteously and respectfully delivered, was about as cold as a proposal of marriage could be. Lord John looked a little embarrassed as he spoke, as if he would much rather be talking about poetry or religion but had to get this troublesome matter out of the way first. And yet, she found herself shaken by it, deeply.

  Of course, she must refuse him. She could not marry a man she had met the day before yesterday. Was that her only objection to him, that the acquaintance was so recent? How could she tell, since she knew so little of him? He did not repulse her, rather the opposite. She had not thought she favoured tall, fair men, but presented with one, especially one with fine features and a wide, charming smile, she found that she had no fixed objection.

  He was supposed to be a poet. He spoke well. It was evident, even on slight acquaintance, that he was clever enough, and probably well-read. She cared not that he was poor, since she had enough for them to live on.

  Her breathing was coming faster as the reality of this expanded in her mind. Married, she would have full command of her own fortune and could live as she pleased. She would no longer have to borrow the protection of a widowed companion, she could become—almost magically, overnight—a chaperone in her own right and gain her independence. It did not matter whom she married, as long as the gentleman in question was amiable and compliant. And it was clear from what Lord John had just said, that he understood this very well.

  "The freedom to live as I please?" she repeated.

  At least a minute must have passed in silence. Lord John had been watching her, waiting patiently for her answer. The wind was blowing his blond hair, which was rather long and slightly curled, into his eyes. He spread his hands and smiled briefly. "You'll forgive me for saying so, but you do not seem entirely happy in your uncle's home."

  Margaret drew her shawl closer around her. The wind was picking up, and she was still shivering.

  The truth was she had thrown her lot in with this scheme the moment she had run out of the door in pursuit of him. It was too late to get cold feet now. If she returned to 17 Charlotte Square this morning as anything other than the betrothed of Lord John Dunwoodie, she would be berated, sent to her room, probably given another hiding, and before long, morally pressured into agreeing to marry the odious Eliphaz Carluke.

  This way, she could gain her independence immediately. It was an intoxicating prospect.

  "Very well," she said. "I accept your offer, Lord John. I will be your wife."

  Afterward, Margaret scarcely remembered walking back from St John's churchyard. They did not go further along Princes Street to the turning into Castle Street, where Johnson's Haberdashery was; she knew that much. She drifted along the pavements between the church and Charlotte Square as if held aloft by Lord John's arm, floating on a sense of unreality.

  A white-capped head was bobbing about down in the area as they approached number seventeen, and Margaret saw the bright, shocked eyes of Anderson espying her return on the arm of a fine-looking gentleman. The maid darted into her underground lair, and by the time they were approaching near the front door, it had been opened wide by Mrs. Cochrane, herself.

  She stood framed in the doorway, her fists balled on her hips like an Old Town fishwife, her expression both vindictive and triumphant. "Well, then, Miss Bell. You are in a whole world of trouble."

  Lord John was as unruffled as he had been at midnight on Tuesday but much more suitably
attired. He swept off his top hat and made a full and formal bow. "Good day to you, madam. How delightful to see you again. I trust you are well? I wonder, is Mr. Cochrane at home?"

  "No he is not, sir, not to you. Margaret, come inside at once and get up to your room."

  "Please, Aunt," said Margaret, holding on faster to Lord John's arm. "I'm sure my uncle could take five minutes to speak with Lord John. We—he—has something very important to say."

  "I really must insist, madam," said Lord John mildly, but in a tone that brooked absolute confidence, raising his hat again briefly.

  And before her aunt could do more than splutter another protest, he had mounted the three steps to the front door and swept right past her into the hall. Margaret was pulled along with him, safe in the wake of his assurance and masculine authority.

  It was a first thrilling taste, she thought, of what was to come.

  Chapter 11

  Margaret's confidence plummeted while she waited alone in the morning room, her workbasket sitting untouched in her lap. Her aunt was pacing about in the hallway, clearly trying to overhear what was going on in the study without actually pressing her ear to the door.

  Charity had been in the morning room already, working on a sampler. Margaret thought that she had probably been watching at the window for her return and had almost certainly seen her arriving with Lord John.

  "What are you about, cousin?" Charity asked in a distressed, penetrating whisper as soon as her mother was out of the room. "You fled the house! Mother was furious! You were going to talk to your uncle about Mr. Carluke. Who is that tall gentleman? Surely, that is not the wicked lord?"

  Margaret made no reply, and Charity had to fall silent when Mrs. Cochrane swept back into the room. Her aunt fell into her usual chair with a scowl, picked up her bag of plain sewing, thrust it down again, and glared at Margaret. "You will pay for your disobedience, young lady," she said in a fierce, low growl.

  Though a prickle of fear ran through Margaret, she calmed herself. Mrs. Cochrane was losing her authority and her power over her niece, all at once. After a dreadful silence of a few minutes more, they heard the door to Mr. Cochrane's study open and male voices exchange at least cordial-sounding farewells.

  Mrs. Cochrane leapt again to her feet and was storming to the door when it opened and Lord John presented himself. The sight of his calm, smiling countenance was a strange contrast to the tension in the morning room.

  "Mrs. Cochrane, Miss Bell." He bowed. "I just looked in to say farewell—for now."

  Her heart leaping, Margaret ignored her aunt's glowering stare and Charity's dazed, disappointed expression and stood up to curtsy to him. He came fully into the room, and in full view of her aunt and her cousin, he took hold of her hand, pressed her fingers, and kissed it.

  Just to provoke her aunt the more, Margaret gave Lord John her most brilliant and coquettish smile and said, "Thank you, Lord John. Farewell, for now."

  Nobody spoke or moved until they all heard the front door close behind the visitor, and then Mrs. Cochrane sprang to her feet and accosted Margaret. "You wicked, disobedient child! How dare you go out alone to meet with a man whose acquaintance you were expressly forbidden! How dare you invite him here! Have you no shame?"

  "Excuse me, madam, but I do not think it anything to be ashamed of, to walk out with my affianced husband and invite him to meet with my uncle."

  Though she was trembling with nerves and her voice wobbled a little even as she spoke, Margaret enjoyed the sensation that these words produced more than she had enjoyed anything since the evil day her uncle had brought Mrs. Rankine into the house. Her aunt's face stiffened with astonishment and her mouth literally dropped open, as if its hinge had suddenly snapped. She seemed unable, for a moment, to form words.

  Charity gasped out loud and cried, "No!"

  With affected calm, Margaret opened her workbasket and brought out the bonnet that still needed ribbons.

  Her aunt snatched it from her hand and threw it to the floor. "You harlot!" she cried.

  "I do not think my uncle would like to hear you call me such a bad word," said Margaret, her voice still tremulous.

  "You cannot be affianced to that…person. You are already promised to Mr. Eliphaz Carluke."

  "I made no such promise."

  "No, because you are a stupid, foolish little girl who does not know her own best interests. But we have promised, your aunt and uncle, we have settled it all on your behalf with Mr. Carluke senior. You will never be permitted to marry this dissolute lord, do you hear?"

  "You cannot prevent me."

  "Aye, we can. I'll lock you in your room and throw away the key until you come to your senses if need be."

  "Margaret."

  Margaret was almost in tears, as much as she was struggling to retain her defiant composure, with her aunt's face inches from her own. At the sound of her uncle's voice, her aunt took a step back from her. Margaret gulped and wrestled with herself to remain calm. A dreadful feeling of regret and guilt and panic washed over her, quite unexpectedly.

  "Mr. Cochrane," her aunt said fiercely. "Tell your niece that she is forbidden to see this Lord John ever again."

  "Margaret," her uncle repeated gravely. "Come to my study, child."

  Thankful to be ordered out of her aunt's firing line at least, Margaret left her to fume and followed her uncle.

  Another wave of doubt and fear, so strong that it was like nausea, rose up in Margaret as her uncle closed the door and shut them alone together.

  Uncle Cochrane's study was a room that had always seemed to Margaret to manifest her uncle's mind and personality. Everything he cared about was in here: rows of books about sea voyages and exotic creatures, curious rock and fossil specimens in glass cases, ancient maps mounted on the walls, and even the stuffed remains of a parrot which had been the companion of his younger days, and which Margaret remembered hopping on his arm and pecking seed from his open palm.

  The unseeing eyes of Henry gazed glassily down at them from his last resting perch, as Margaret stood before the desk and her uncle settled down behind it.

  "Margaret, my dear," he said, gently enough, "what is all this nonsense? Have you taken leave of your senses?"

  "N-no, indeed, uncle. Lord John has made me an offer of marriage, and I accepted him."

  "This much, I gathered from him. I must say he was perfectly civil, if somewhat glib. But it is an extraordinary thing. Who is this gentleman? We do not know him. When did you make his acquaintance?"

  "On Tuesday night, at Mrs. Hamilton's soiree, sir. You may see his name listed in the Peerage as the fifth son of the late thirteenth Marquess of Crieff." She knew this, because she had made the experiment the day before.

  "And that is why you want to marry him, child? Because he has this minor title?"

  "No! Of course not, Uncle. I-I think he would be a good husband. I—" She faltered. She could not tell him the real reason, that she was desperate to leave the home that he had so kindly provided for her after her parents' death. "You surely want to see me well married, Uncle?"

  "I do. I do. Which is why, taking my dear good wife's advice—for she knows far more than I do about these things and has a far wider acquaintance—I have negotiated with Mr. Carluke of Rosslyn to bring about a marriage between you and his heir. Now, young Mr. Carluke really is an excellent match, Margaret. Rosslyn House in Fife is as fine a home as Leuchers and will be your very own one day if you marry Mr. Carluke. As far as I understand it, this Lord John has no home of his own, far less a fine old country manor."

  "Surely, Uncle, I am to marry a man, not a house?"

  He looked at her over the top of his pince-nez. "You say such things now, Margaret, for you are young and silly and have always lived in comfort. Once I am gone, you will have nothing but what your father left you, for you know that my estate goes all to your cousin. Marry Mr. Carluke, and your lifelong comfort is secured. I would like to see your comfort secured before I die, my dear."
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  "Uncle!" Margaret felt tears spring behind her eyes. "Mr. Carluke would not secure me anything but misery and unhappiness! I will never marry him!"

  "That is unfortunate, as I have already given my word as a gentleman to his father."

  "You should have done no such thing!" Margaret cried. "You ought to have consulted my inclination first!"

  "Mrs. Cochrane, my dear, has taught me that I have consulted your inclination all too often and indulged and spoiled you."

  "No! She is wrong! I am not spoiled!" She banged her hand on the table and burst out, "I wish you had never married her!"

  A hurt look in her uncle's eyes made her immediately repent of her outburst and wish it unsaid. She chewed her bottom lip and was about to attempt an apology, when her uncle spoke again in a different tone. His expression had hardened.

  "You will not marry this Lord John," he said coldly. "He asked for my blessing, and I said that I would have to think about it first and speak to you, for the idea was entirely new to me. I see now that it is a childish fancy, petulant obstinacy. Quite apart from the fact that you have only just met him and the family is unknown to ours, quite apart from the fact that he appears to have no means of supporting you, I agree with my wife's view, that marriage outside one's station in life is ill-considered. We are country gentry, he is of the aristocracy. They have different ways. No, Margaret. No more; that is my final word on the matter."

  He turned to his bookcase, pulled down a volume, and opened it. It was his accustomed signal that the interview was over.

  Margaret took a deep breath. "You cannot prevent me."

  She had said the exact same words to her aunt, screamed them in anger, but it seemed a far more dreadful thing to utter them to her uncle, though in a low tone of forced calm.

  His eyes flicked up from the page; his brows drew together.

  Margaret quavered internally but continued resolutely. "I do not need your consent to marry. If you do not give me your blessing for my marriage with Lord John, then I-I am very sorry for it, but I intend to wed him regardless. The law in Scotland—"