Marigold's Marriages (16 page)

“I can tell that this portrait is important to everything, so please help me look at it,” she entreated.

“You, my lady, are a very difficult woman,” he said resignedly. “Very well, let us subject every brushstroke to a microscope.” He held the candle really close, and they both gazed at the painting.

Almost immediately, Marigold gave another gasp. “There’s a wheel lying among the marigolds! Why put it there, I wonder?”

“Heaven alone knows.” He gave her a sideways glance, guessing her thoughts. “If you’re wondering about what happened at the Spread Eagle, I suggest you stop. What possible connection can there be between that nonsense and the Avenbury curse? I don’t think any significance can be attached to the wheel in this, any more than there can to the marigolds. Your imagination has the bit between its teeth. Why, earlier you even tried to drag that odious drake in it all.”

“Because I think he is part of it. Rowan, there are mallard drakes in the portrait too. See? There, among the waterfowl on the lake. Are you going to tell me
they
happen to be Jennifer Avenbury’s favorite too? And look here, there’s also a spray of rowan in the grass! Oh, the more I look, the more strange things I discover. See the white-robed druids in the background? The one with an arm extended has black feathers instead of a left hand. Why is that, do you think?”

“Heaven alone knows. All right, I admit that you’re right, there are things in the portrait which cannot with honesty be unconnected with the legend and curse, and if the wheel mentioned at the Spread Eagle had something to do with it—”

“It does. Don’t you remember the little picture of the robin? With the same white wing feathers as my Robin ...”

“I’ve already bowed to your superior comprehension,” he replied.

She smiled, and resumed her inspection of the portrait. “These white-robed figures remind me of a painting at Castell Arnold. Anglesey was a druid stronghold in Roman times, and—” She broke off as another intriguing thing caught her attention.

“What have you seen?” he asked quickly.

“Something else that connects the Spread Eagle with all this. You told me Falk Arnold was among those who frequent the inn, didn’t you? Well, this druid here with the staff is the very image of him!”

Rowan leaned to look. “Good God, so it is.” Then he drew back, as if the likeness to Falk wasn’t the only thing he had suddenly perceived. He went to put the candelabrum down on the table.

“Marigold, this may be something or nothing, but I think I should mention it. Do you remember I mentioned the occasion at White’s when Falk was in his cups, and would have been thrown out but for Merlin? Falk claimed that one of his ancestors had been denied his rights by one of my ancestors?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, the figure you’ve singled out as being like Falk, is supposed to be Aquila Randle.”

Marigold’s lips parted in amazement. “What are you saying? That Randle may have been Falk’s forebear?”

“Not
saying
exactly, but certainly wondering.”

Marigold gazed at the portrait again. “So, at White’s, Falk could have been referring to Randle’s defeat by the first Lord Avenbury?”

“It’s all conjecture, but...” Rowan shrugged.

“Rowan, when you told me the story of the curse, you said Randle’s parting vow was that he would return to see the thirteenth and last lord die, that he would marry Jennifer after all, and that he would take your title and inheritance.” She lowered her glance. “Falk has recently acquired a taste for stealing inheritances,” she added quietly.

“Marigold, it’s one thing to speculate that Falk may be descended from Randle, quite another to hazard that he may be about to take up the cudgels on Randle’s behalf.”

“Oh, believe me, it would be on Falk Arnold’s behalf, not Randle’s,” Marigold replied dryly. Her gaze wandered back to the druid with the staff. The painting was less distinct now that the candlelight was further away, but even so she thought the figure was her unamiable brother-in-law to a T, so much so that the artist might have painted it quite recently instead of several centuries ago.

Rowan looked at the figure as well, and then made another rather reluctant observation. “Randle didn’t spell his name the usual way. There’s a specimen of his signature on some document in my lawyers’ keeping. He signed himself R-a-n-d-o-l, which I’ve just realized is an anagram of Arnold.”

Marigold gasped. “So it is!”

“More than that, the obsession with bird names extends to Randol as well, for Aquila is Latin for eagle.”

“And Arnold means eagle power.” Birds, always birds. Falk, Merlin, Peregrine, Alauda, Shrike, Crane, Robin Redbreast, Jenny Wren, even Sir Francis! She lowered her eyes, recalling Jenny’s plea at the oak.
Help us, Mangold! Help us, please, before it’s too late!
Now that so much had seemed to be shown in the portrait, should she tell Rowan about Robin and Jenny? She decided she would.

“Rowan, after all this, I can’t help accepting that there really
is
something strange in progress after all, maybe even that the curse is—”

He broke in quickly. “Please don’t say anything more, don’t think anything more, don’t look for anything more!”

His unexpected vehemence took her aback. “Barely an hour ago you were exhorting me to believe!”

“I know, but I don’t always say what I mean, or mean what I say.”

“Rowan, I may usually be practical and always in search of a logical answer to everything, but there isn’t a rational or natural explanation for all this, therefore we have to enter the realms of the irrational and supernatural.”

Suddenly he put his finger gently but firmly to her lips. “I know, Marigold, but can’t you see that I need you to be strong and scornful? That’s why your volte-face feels almost like betrayal to me.”

“Betrayal? Oh, but—”

“In twelve days it will be midsummer, and in the meantime I need you to argue, to pour disdain upon it all, to make me hope the whole business is a nonsense. Please, Marigold.”

His vulnerability in that moment was so affecting that tears sprang to her eyes. She loved him so fiercely that to defend him she would have faced Satan himself. She would certainly confront whatever lay behind this portrait!

Slowly he removed his finger from her lips, and kissed her. Then he smiled into her tear-washed eyes. “Don’t cry, my lady, for the night—and our marriage bed—awaits. Come.” He took her hand and led her from the room.

Marigold awoke the next morning with Rowan’s arms around her. Outside it was a sunny June morning, and she could hear the peacocks on the lawns. She gazed at the cream velvet bed hangings, and the tasseled golden ropes that tied them back to the dark carved oak posts. They were in her apartment, the one that was always set aside for the lady of the house; Rowan’s apartment was a little further along the passage, and occupied the prime position above the main entrance.

She snuggled closer to him, inhaling his warm masculinity, and putting her lips to the soft hair on his chest. Oh, this was paradise, and how wonderful the night had been, making love with him until the small hours before falling asleep in an embrace. Heaven help her, she loved him to distraction, and at a moment like this she didn’t want to think about anything threatening, but she knew she must, for as he had pointed out, there were only twelve days to midsummer.

She tried to be her usual sensible self, finding a commonplace explanation for it all, but it didn’t work. How could it, when a robin followed her from Anglesey, and a wren spoke? And when so much could be read into a mere painting? She rested her cheek against Rowan’s chest, and closed her eyes. If she accepted that it was really happening, she also had to accept the curse, but for Rowan’s sake, she knew she must hold her tongue. Last night his vulnerability had cut into her heart like the sharpest knife, and if she could spare him any pain at all, she would.

Rowan stirred, and his arms tightened around her. “This is a very pleasing awakening, my lady,” he murmured.

“I find it so too, my lord,” she whispered.

“I still cannot believe that Merlin Arnold was so great a fool as to desert your bed,” he said softly, pulling her on top of him, so her red-gold hair tumbled forward over her shoulders, and her nipples brushed his chest. He put his hand up to run his fingers through her hair.

She felt him hardening and pressing between her legs, and closed her eyes with pleasure.
Let these moments never end....
But the moment did end, indeed it was shattered by an urgent knocking at the door. Her eyes flew open with dismay, and Rowan looked irritably toward the sound. “Yes?”

“It’s Beech, my lord. Please forgive the intrusion, but I
must
speak with you.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“I fear not, sir.”

“Oh, very well, I’ll see you in her ladyship’s dressing room directly.”

“My lord.”

Rowan sighed, and then looked up at her. “The pleasures of the flesh must wait, I fear,” he said, putting his hand to the nape of her neck and pulling her mouth down to his. Then she rolled reluctantly aside as he flung back the bedclothes, and grabbed his dressing gown. She drew the bedclothes warmly around herself, then watched as he went through into the adjoining dressing room, leaving the door ajar. She heard the ensuing conversation.

“What is so important that I must be disturbed, Beech?”

“My lord, I would not presume, but the situation is, er, delicate.”

“Delicate?”

“The landlord of the Royal Oak has come running to report an overturned wagon at the village crossroad, and—”

“Beech, with all due respect, I fail to see how this can be termed delicate.”

“I must relate it all, for you to understand, sir.”

“Oh, very well. What about this wagon?”

“It’s carrying the luggage of a lady who is about to stay with her brother, the new tenant of Romans.”

“So there
is
a new tenant? I wondered when I saw lights there yesterday.”

“Oh, yes, my lord, the agent arranged it all a week or so ago.”

“Go on.”

“The tenant is expecting a large party of guests, his sister included, and she sent her belongings ahead by this London carrier, a very vulgar and quarrelsome fellow by the name of Starling. Anyway, it seems he missed the sharp turning to Romans, and only realized when he reached the village, so he tried to turn his wagon, but it overturned, and spilled its entire load. Naturally, the villagers hurried to help, but instead of showing gratitude, the fellow leveled a shotgun at them and vowed he’d shoot anyone who so much as came a step closer.”

“Good God.”

“It’s true, my lord. And there he sits now, refusing to let anyone near, and saying that the only persons with authority to say who can and cannot handle the property are the lady herself, who has yet to leave London, or her brother at Romans.”

“Well, I trust someone has had the sense to send word to Romans?”

“Yes, my lord, but the gentleman was out. A message was left, but that was an hour ago. The crossroad is completely blocked, other traffic cannot pass, and tempers are running high. The innkeeper fears someone could be killed, and that you are the only person to whom this lunatic may listen.”

“Who in heaven’s name
are
these people I have at Romans?”

But butler cleared his throat. “This is the rather delicate point, my lord,” he replied.

“How so?”

Beech’s voice dropped out of Marigold’s hearing. There followed a brief silence, and then Rowan answered. “Very well, I will be ready directly.”

“My lord.”

Beech left the dressing room, and Rowan returned to the foot of the bed. He seemed a little unsettled. “Marigold, I fear I must go out to deal with an incident in the village. After that I have estate matters to attend to, and will breakfast as I can. I should be free by the middle of the afternoon, but trust you will be able to amuse yourself in the meantime?”

“I am well able to amuse myself, my lord,” she replied, wondering greatly about the tenant of Romans and his sister.

“I will send Sally, and give instructions that your breakfast is to be served here. Then you may do as you please, for you are now mistress of this house.” He turned toward the door, then paused to smile back at her. “Be assured that I have not forgotten our unfinished, er, business.”

She smiled back, but when he’d returned to his own apartment to dress, she pondered the overheard conversation. Why had the butler believed the identity of the new tenant was too delicate for the ears of Lady Avenbury? What’s more, why did Rowan apparently think the same?

Sally came as promised with a breakfast tray of scrambled eggs, toast, and tea, and while Marigold ate in bed, the maid laid out the clothes they decided upon. Marigold had finished breakfast, washed, had her hair combed and pinned, and had begun to dress in a black-spotted white muslin morning gown when she heard a faint tapping at the bedroom window. It was Jenny Wren. Marigold glanced quickly at Sally. “That will be all now, Sally, I can finish myself.”

“Very well, madam.” The maid bobbed, and hurried away.

Marigold immediately opened the casement. “You
are
Jenny Avenbury, aren’t you?” she asked, somehow knowing that the wren would understand.

“Yes.” To anyone else the wren sounded as if she called tic-tic-tic, but Marigold heard the spoken word. Jenny hopped closer. “Help us, help us, please.”

“But how?”

“Come. Come now.”

Jenny flew to the walnut tree that grew outside, where Marigold saw Robin was waiting. “Come where?”

“Ride, ride,” called Jenny.

Marigold nodded. “All right, I’ll get ready.”

“Quick, quick.”

Without calling for Sally again, Marigold dressed as quickly as she could in her riding habit. Word was sent to the stables to prepare a horse for her ladyship, and within ten minutes she was hurrying down to the hall in her sage green habit and brown hat, her white gauze scarf floating behind her. A groom had saddled a fine roan mare and brought it to the front of the house, together with a horse of his own, indicating an intention to accompany her.