Marigold's Marriages (2 page)

No shocked gasps from the servants now, merely a stunned silence as all eyes turned toward Marigold. She was shaken to the very core, and could not move. The hush was so complete that she heard something tapping at the window. It was a robin, his red breast feathers puffed, and his head cocked to one side as he looked intently at her. He shook his wings, revealing several unusual white feathers, then he trilled a little, still looking at her. Had he spoken she could not have understood his message more clearly. “Go on,” he was saying, “Go on, and tell them what you think of this so-called will!”

Suddenly she found herself getting up from her chair. She tossed her veil back to reveal her pale face and the glint of her red-gold hair, and her bombazine skirts rustled in the hush as she approached the table. “Mr. Crowe, is this truly the last will and testament of the late Mr. Arnold?” she asked, her voice carrying with unexpected clarity.

“It is indeed, Mrs. Arnold. I, er, mean, Miss Marchmont.” The smirk in his voice matched the one in his shifty eyes.

“I do not believe you. If there was coldness between the late Mr. Arnold and me, it began within months of our marriage, and was certainly not a recent thing. Why then would he wait all this time before casting me off? I’ll tell you why, sirrah, it is because he and I
were
legally married. This will is a fake!”

There was immediate uproar. Falk leapt to his feet, his spinster aunts had the vapors, and old Mrs. Arnold collapsed, but not so completely she could not gasp for a large restorative glass of sherry. The servants babbled together, sounding for all the world like a flight of wild geese.

 Alauda rose in a graceful swirl of black brocade, and advanced accusingly toward Marigold. “How
dare
you suggest that Merlin’s will is false! My brother is dead, and this family is in the deepest mourning! Have you no shame?” she cried above the noise.

Silence fell, and as Marigold turned to face her; she was still conscious of the robin’s bright gaze. She had the uncanny feeling he was egging her on, and suddenly she felt almost exhilarated. The years of humiliation she’d suffered at the hands of this woman and her unpleasant family suddenly became too much. It was time to deal the creature in kind!

“Shame?”
she repeated challengingly. “Come now, Lady Fernborough, people in glass houses should not throw stones. I was always a faithful wife, whereas you ... Oh, dear.” Marigold tutted reprovingly, and as the robin fluttered joyously against the window, she swept recklessly on. “Shame is
your
forte, not mine, Alauda. Who is your lover at the moment, my lady? One of the guards’ regiments? Oh, no, that was last week. Let me see. Ah, yes, it’s Lord Avenbury now, isn’t it? Or has he already discarded you for pastures new? From all accounts his conquests outnumber even yours!”

Alauda’s lips whitened at the edges. “Hold your tongue!” she breathed.

“Gladly, but only if you will oblige me by doing the same,” Marigold retorted, all thought of caution now dispatched with the four winds.

Falk intervened. “That is enough. Alauda, please be seated again. As for you, Miss Marchmont, under the circumstances I think it appropriate for you to leave Castell Arnold before the passing of another night. And do not think the dower house remains at your disposal, for of course, it does not.”

Marigold’s green eyes were withering. “This family’s concerted efforts to have my marriage set aside fell on stony ground fourteen years ago, and have continued to do so ever since. Until now, of course, when Merlin is conveniently dead and unable to prove or disprove anything!”

Falk’s expression became venomous. “What are you implying, madam?”

“Do I need to spell it out? You have always wanted Castell Arnold, now you have set out to get it illegally.”

Old Mrs. Arnold rose unsteadily, and pushed back her veil to reveal her long pointed nose and small eyes. Her first name was Merle, the French for blackbird, and seldom had it seemed more appropriate to Marigold than now. Indeed, at this moment they
all
resembled the birds after which they were named. Mrs. Arnold pointed a quivering lace-mittened finger at Marigold. “Oh, monstrous ingrate! You have been feeding off this family’s bounty for years, and now have the
gall
to—to—”

“The gall to speak out?” Marigold interrupted, her chin raised defiantly.

Falk seized her arm. “Enough of this unseemliness, madam. The will is genuine, and you and your son no longer have a place in this family.” He pointed toward the staircase. “The dower house has been cleared of your property, and the room you have temporarily occupied here is being attended to right now, so I suggest you oversee matters before the carriage arrives at the door.”

“How very premature to issue such orders before the seal on the will was broken. But then, I suppose if you already knew what the document contained ...” As she allowed her voice to trail suggestively away, she again heard the robin’s encouraging chirrup. She couldn’t help recalling how Merlin had met with his death. A robin. The same one? No, that was preposterous....

“Just prepare to depart forthwith, madam! This family no longer welcomes you,” Falk replied, toying with the old gold ring he always wore. It was formed like an eagle, with outstretched wings and eyes of coral.

“This family
never
welcomed me, sirrah, but Perry is Merlin’s legitimate child, and therefore heir to all this!” She swept an arm to encompass the hall, but in her heart of hearts she no longer knew anything for certain. What if an actor had indeed been hired to play the clergyman?

Falk saw the uncertainty pass briefly through her eyes, and he smiled anew. “No, Miss Marchmont, your son is my brother’s
illegitimate
child,” he declared, trying to usher her toward the door.

She resisted, shaking her arm free and whirling to face him again. “I will fight you through the courts!” she cried.

To her astonishment, the entire family broke into laughter. Even Mr. Crowe was moved to smile. “My dear lady,” the lawyer said, “even presuming you had the funds for such a legal battle, you would still lose. Mr. Arnold is unassailable.”

“Unassailable? How so?” she demanded.

“It is quite impossible for you to win, Miss Marchmont,” Mr. Crowe insisted, declining to explain more.

Falk addressed her again. “Enough, madam. I wish you to be gone from this house before another night passes. Is that clear, madam?”

“Why do you always measure time in nights, not days?” She couldn’t help asking, for it was something that had always puzzled her about the Arnolds. A week to them was seven nights long, not seven days. Even Merlin’s will referred to the fourth
night
of April.

Falk didn’t answer the question, but turned to snap his finger at two footmen, who came immediately. “Miss Marchmont is leaving,” he said.

“I despise you, Falk Arnold,” she whispered, and a pin could have been heard to drop as she went on in a clear tone that could be heard by everyone. “You have always coveted my son’s birthright, and the only way you can lay your grasping hands upon it is by falsifying your own brother’s will! Is that how you achieved your other legal successes? Have you cheated and lied your way through the courts?”

He turned to the footmen. “Remove this person,” he said tersely.

The robin pecked at the glass, then burst into a defiant little song. Again he inspired her, and her next action was gloriously impulsive. There was an elaborate silver inkstand in front of Mr. Crowe, one of its bottles containing red ink, the other black. Before the footmen could take hold of her, she seized the red ink, and tossed the contents at Falk. There were startled cries as scarlet spots spattered all over him. “Throw her out!” he shrieked, searching for a handkerchief with which to mop the stains.

But Marigold had already gathered her skirts to walk proudly toward the great staircase. She glanced at the window, and saw the robin fly away. As she ascended to the floor above, her head was held high, and no one could tell how utterly devastated she was. She reached her room to find two maids hastily packing her things. They faced her uneasily. “It was Mr. Falk’s orders, madam,” said one.

With great difficulty, Marigold contained herself. It wasn’t their fault, so it would ill become her to blame them. So she said nothing as she went out onto the balcony. Her brief moment of doubt concerning the legality of her marriage was already a thing of the past. The odious Crowe had forged a new will to suit Falk, and she knew she stood little chance of proving it. The hopelessness of her situation made her feel numb. What would become of her now? And of Perry? She was without income, and disowned both by her own family, and by the Arnolds. How was she going to provide for herself and her son?

Several minutes passed, and she could hear the maids whispering together, but suddenly they fell silent. Turning, she saw them gazing nervously at the door as Falk’s angry steps approached. The moment he entered, they gasped at his red-spotted appearance, then scurried out. He’d tried to wipe the ink, but had only succeeded in smearing it, and his continuing fury was such that he trembled visibly.

She knew he’d dearly like to strike her, and she steeled herself. His amber eyes were like stones as he crossed the room to block her escape on the balcony. “I’ve waited a long time to be rid of you, madam, and believe me, in spite of your childish outburst, I am enjoying every moment”

Never had he seemed more large and frightening, and as she pressed back against the balustrade, she was uneasily conscious of the drop to the gardens below. But to her relief he came no closer.

“I could never understand what my brother saw in you, and I certainly can’t imagine why he had to go the length of making you his wife.”

She gave a sharp intake of breath. “So you
admit
he married me?”

“We are alone, my dear, so why should I pretend? Yes of course the will is false, but as you so shrewdly observed, I would go to any length to have your son’s birthright. It is now mine, and there is nothing you can do about it. Crowe is my creature through and through, and all trace of the marriage ceremony has been expunged. But there
is
an actor in my pay, and he is very eager to earn a fat purse for swearing before witnesses that he ‘officiated’ at a fake ceremony between you and my late brother. Attempt to take me to court, and you will very shortly be out of countenance, for I cannot lose when it comes to the law.”

“We will see about that,” she replied in a trembling voice.

He laughed. “I have protection, my dear.”

“Protection?”

“That is what I said.”

Suddenly the robin fluttered down beside her on the balustrade. In its bill it held a marigold flower and a rowan leaf. Falk froze, and stepped involuntarily backward as she instinctively held out her finger to the little bird. For the briefest of moments she again thought he was afraid of her, but almost immediately his face became a mask. Then he lunged forward to grab her by the arms, and the robin dropped the flower and leaf as it flew into the room in alarm.

Falk shook her roughly. “Who are you?” he demanded.

The fall to the gardens threatened, and she was afraid. “I—I don’t understand. You
know
who I am!”

“Don’t meddle in my affairs, madam, for you have no idea of my power,” he said softly, his face so close she could feel his breath.

“Power?”

Releasing her, he slowly crushed the flower and leaf with his heel. “Just remember nothing can defeat me, my dear. This is the last time you and I will ever speak, madam, a fact for which I am eternally thankful.”

“The feeling is mutual, sir,” she replied.

“Be gone from here within the hour.” He turned to leave, but the robin flew down from the top of the bed canopy, where it had taken refuge. It skimmed so close over his head that he was forced to duck, but then the bird swooped over him again and again, until he was obliged to raise an arm to fend it off.

It seemed to Marigold that there was a definite purpose in the robin’s attack, and at last she saw what it was. Making a particularly daring dive, the bird seized Falk’s splendid golden hair with its tiny claws. For a moment Marigold couldn’t believe her eyes, for the thatch of curls lifted slightly, and she glimpsed the gleaming bald pate beneath. Falk Arnold wore a wig!

With an apoplectic oath, he swiped at the robin, which darted out of reach before returning to another angle of attack, this time seeming concerned with Falk’s coat pocket. A handkerchief protruded, and the robin seized it with its bill, then tugged with all its might. The handkerchief came out in a rush, bringing with it a red billiard ball that fell heavily to the floor. The ball would have rolled beneath a chest of drawers, had not Falk put out a foot on it. Its purpose evidently fulfilled, the robin flew out past Marigold, then away across the park, chirruping triumphantly as it went.

Marigold was bemused by the truth about Falk’s hair, but even more by the bird’s incredible antics. As she gazed down at the handkerchief and billiard ball, Falk bent to retrieve both. There was a loud ripping sound as the back seam on his long-suffering breeches gave up what had been a very long struggle.

In spite of everything, Marigold could have laughed. Oh, how good it was to see his humiliation. But somehow she kept a straight face as he stuffed the ball and handkerchief into his pocket again, then carefully backed out from the room.

A fortnight later, the June sun was setting as the London to Bristol stagecoach rattled into the yard of the Spread Eagle Inn, which stood in the shadow of Windsor Castle. Horses stamped, bells rang, and ostlers shouted as a single passenger stepped down to the straw-strewn cobbles. It was Marigold, and she was to stay here overnight, before visiting Perry, who had still to be told the awful truth about their savagely reduced circumstances.

She wore a lilac silk pelisse and matching gown, and her rich red-gold hair was swept up beneath a gray jockey bonnet from which trailed a long cream gauze scarf. For the sake of Perry’s rightful claim to his inheritance, she was still wearing her wedding ring and calling herself Mrs. Merlin Arnold, but she had discarded black because of the peculiar Arnold tradition of wearing mourning for only a month.