Maulever Hall (19 page)

There he was now, slowing Prince to a canter as they came over the hill and he saw the draggle-tailed procession she and Sadie constituted. Well, there was nothing for it but to set her teeth and go steadily on to meet him. Or at least, there would have been, if the closest flash and peal yet had not rent the sky just above her. Even she admitted terror this time: it seemed as if the lightning had struck the earth just beside her and, for a moment, stock-still like Sadie, she was shudderingly expecting to find herself hurt. But, no, the moment passed, she was merely cold, and wet and wretched. As for Sadie, she seemed beyond movement now, her head down in such a posture of terror and despair that Marianne forgot her own wretchedness in feeling, simply, sorry for her. Besides, as she whispered consolation and endearment into the velvety ear, she could pretend not to see Mauleverer, not to hear the
infuriatingly regular beat of Prince’s hoofs. When she had listened to a horse’s hoofs before
...
?

He was beside her now, pulling Prince up and looking down at her. “Miss Lamb, I thought I told you Sadie was not safe for you to ride.” She had expected scorn, but this was fury; his face was white, the scar livid across it; he seemed not to notice the rain that streamed from the brim of his hat and down his cheek; his whole attention, like his angry eyes, was fixed upon her.

She would not lose her head. “You seem to have been right.”

“Of course I was right. Jim Barnes shall lose his position for this.”

“No, no; you cannot do that. I let him think you had given me permission.”

“I might have known it. Efficient, devious Miss Lamb: you did not exactly tell him, you merely let him think you had my permission. No wonder he looked so amazed, and so frightened, when the horse I had ordered for you arrived today.”

“Ordered for me?”

“You think me, I can see, totally neglectful. Did we not agree, some time ago, that riding exercise would do you good? Did I not say I must find you a horse? Well, it took me a little longer than I had expected to find just what I wanted
...
and, in the meanwhile, you have been risking your life on Sadie.”

“No, truly, it was not as bad as that. She minds me well enough as a general thing.”

“Yes.” The old sardonic expression was back and it was a relief to her to see it. “I can see she does. That is why you are drenched to the skin and reduced to leading her. But I suppose I should be grateful it is no worse. She might have bolted with you, you know.”

“Oh”—how safe she felt now he was here—“she did that long ago.”

“And you went right on riding her! I hope you do not expect me to admire your courage, Miss Lamb.”

“Of course not. I know precisely what you think of me.”

So far he had been leaning down from the saddle to throw his words at her, but now he leaped lightly to the ground beside her. “Do you so? And how, pray, do I think of you?”

“Why, as a burdensome dependent who must be sent packing on your marriage.”

“I see. When I marry Lady Heverdon, you mean?”

“Exactly.”

“You think you will accompany my mother to the Home for Distressed Gentlefolks Lady Heverdon has picked out for her. I believe you delude yourself, efficient Miss Lamb. I doubt if my beloved would consent to my making funds available for both of you. We will have our dignity to consider, remember: naturally I must take up my title; we could hardly be announced, at a ball, as Lady Heverdon and Mr. Mauleverer. There will be no need, even, to change the monogram on the bridal sheets, so in some ways it will be economical enough, but I do not believe we shall be able to keep you, Miss Lamb, able-bodied as you are. No, I think you must be thinking of packing up and moving on.”

“And so I have been.”

“Admirable. And who, pray, is to be the lucky man, if not Mr. Emsworth?”

“You seem to think there is no other career for a female but matrimony.”

“Well, is there? I grant you a few Phoenixes—a Miss Mitford or a Miss Austen may do well enough. Do you propose to commence author—and spinster—all at once, Miss Lamb?”

“I am convinced I have not the slightest talent that way, Mr. Mauleverer. Anyway, for the moment my one thought is to get home and into some dry clothes. I will think about my future some other time.”

“Practical Miss Lamb! But I am not sure that even I can persuade Sadie to move on while the storm still rages so. We will shiver here a few moments longer, I think, before we make the attempt, and you shall pass the time by telling me what you think of my bride-to-be.”

“What I think of Lady Heverdon! I hope I know my place better than that.”

“You speak like a kitchen maid! Your place indeed! Sometimes, Miss Lamb, I think you have a perfect genius for making me angry—indeed, I suspect you of doing it on purpose. I am sick to death of this mystery of yours.”

“Not half so sick as I am.”

“I expect not. You were not meant to be a patient companion, a humble dependent ... I have seen the flash in your eye often enough, the ironic twist of your lip when you thought no one was noticing you, humble and quiet-seeming in your corner. Why are you not afraid of me, Miss Lamb?”

“Afraid of you? Why should I be?”

“Because I have the devil’s own temper. Everyone knows that: servants tremble at my frown, my mother knows better than to rouse me—even my Lady Heverdon—but you have made it clear you do not wish to discuss her. And here are you, dependent on me for the bread of charity, and without so much proper respect as will prevent you from taking my horse without permission—in direct contradiction of my orders—and risking laming her, or worse—in your mad gallops about the moors.”

She could not help laughing. “Hardly a mad gallop today.”

“There, I said so: you are not in the least afraid. Where are your tremors, Miss Lamb?”

“I am sorry to disappoint you—and, indeed, I was afraid, when I first heard you coming, only, you see, I was so very glad to see you.”

“Mauleverer to the rescue, eh? But do not delude yourself: I am no parfit gentil knight, Miss Lamb. I am a bad-tempered, ugly, frustrated man. They’ve thrown out my Bill again, you know, and Grey says I must go to the Lords, like it or not, and fight for it there.”

“Oh—I’m sorry.” Forgetting rain and cold she turned to him impulsively. “I am so sorry.”

And now, amazingly, he was smiling. “You really care, don’t you, Miss Lamb?”

“About your politics? Of course I do.”

‘To the devil with my politics. You care about me, Miss Lamb. The curling lip, the flashing eye were for my folly, but there have been tears, too, for my sorrows, laughter for my joys. Did you think me totally blind?”

“Not blind so much as besotted.” It was out before she could stop herself.

He laughed his harsh laugh. “As well you might. And indeed, it is true that Lady Heverdon had me enthralled for a while. I am not even ashamed to confess it to you. It is pleasant for an ugly brute like me to find himself so publicly adored, and by such a beauty. You thought she had me fooled to the top of my bent, did you not, observant Miss Lamb, sitting at your piano night after night and wasting your Beethoven on her dull ears? Well, perhaps I was, at first. She is surpassingly beautiful, you must admit—far far more lovely than you, even when you color up with anger, and your eyes sparkle as they are doing now. And she is a
lady of family, of title, of accomplishments—there is no mystery about her. Am I not mad, Miss Lamb, to prefer a waif, a beggar who does not even know her own name?”

His long speech had given her time to collect herself. “Quite mad,” she said composedly. “Nor do I believe that you do. You are mocking me, sir, and I cannot think what I have done to deserve it.”

“Can you not? You do not remember, then, sitting night after night, looking so quiet and so cynical? You do not plead guilty to thinking me a doting fool, and showing it?”

“If I showed it, I apologize.”

“That’s better. You thought it impossible, did you not, that any female could be so enamored as Lady Heverdon seemed of such a bad-tempered botched up creature as I.”

“I certainly thought you bad-tempered. I still do. Look at you now.”

His scowl changed to a reluctant smile. “Exactly. No woman in her senses would marry me. Miranda Heverdon’s finances must be deplorable indeed for her to have considered it for a moment. Well, I have looked into them, and it is true, they are. She is oceans deep in debt; has been, I suspect, since before she married my cousin, and his will has left her no chance of recovering herself. Oh yes, she needs to marry badly enough to be grateful for so easy a mark as I must have seemed. She told me, you know, that you had engaged yourself to Mr. Emsworth.”

“Oh.” Marianne was beginning to see. “She told me that she was engaged to you.”

“She lied. I have been a fool, but not such a fool as that. Flirtation is a game that two can play at; she gave me my cue; I followed it; she has no grounds for complaint.”

“Poor Lady Heverdon.”

“Yes, poor Lady Heverdon, if you like, and now, enough of her. We have established that I am ugly and impossible. I am, however, rich; I look like finding myself a Marquis
malgre moi
;
I have a passably entertaining career ahead of me, and a foolish old mother who cannot help cheating at cards. I have a house in the valley over there on to which I do not intend to build a Gothic front, and another house in Yorkshire in which I do not intend to live. I shall always be bad-tempered, but I hope I should be good to my wife, so long as I respected her, and she me
...
”

“I hope you would too, but I do not see what it has to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you, and you know it. Come, Miss Lamb, the time for coyness is past. You are the only woman I know with whom I can imagine living a reasonable life. You are not afraid of me; you do not cower when I scowl; you are damnably intelligent and know what I mean when I talk politics—you will make, by the by, an admirable politician’s wife. Can you not imagine yourself running a salon in London?”

“Yes, very much more easily than I can imagine myself married to you. And now, Mr. Mauleverer, I am cold and wet, and the thunder has slackened. Let us go home.”

“Is that all your answer?”

“What else should I say? You do not want a wife, Mr. Mauleverer, you want a housekeeper with political interests.”

He ground his teeth. “Damnation. I have done it all wrong; I knew I would. But how can I imagine that you might love a thing like me—what right have I to appeal to you on sentimental grounds? My time for romance was over sixteen years ago.”

“So your mother told me. Oh, no need to growl at me; I know you think yourself disfigured beyond repair. I tell you, Mr. Mauleverer, if you are sick to death of my mystery, I am equally so of your appearance.”

“I am sorry if I bore you.”

“No need to be. You will never do that.”

“And what, pray, am I to understand by that?”

“What you will.”

“Marianne! What a fool I am!”

She smiled up at him. “I think so.”

He looped Prince’s reins more firmly round his arm. “Miss Lamb, I have loved you, despite myself, I think from the first moment of seeing you. I will be honest with you and confess I fought the feeling—I tried to remain, as I thought, faithful to Lady Heverdon. It was impossible. Marianne, I adore you. If you will not marry me, I have no hope of happiness left. I hope I shall not actually destroy myself, but I shall most certainly degenerate into a bad-tempered, wretched old bachelor.”

“Worse tempered than ever? Impossible.” But her eyes gave him a different answer.

“Marianne! Is it possible? Can you really love me?”

She smiled up at him. “How can I help it?” And was in his arms. The rain poured down, the thunder still rumbled in the
distance and occasional lightning flashes lit up the hills around them. They took no notice. The two horses, quietly cropping here and there at the close grass of the path occasionally twitched on the reins so carelessly held. At last, he raised his head to look down at her: “My darling, you are soaked to the skin.”

“So are you. Does it matter?”

“Nothing matters. This is happiness, my love. I thought I had lost all chance of it; I pretended to myself that I might have some respectable substitute with Lady Heverdon
...
and now, now I have you. Tell me you’ll love me always.”

“Always. And you’ll not mind if we discover I’m a pauper?”

“Why should I, so long as you are mine? Marianne, marry me soon. I have known so much unhappiness, I shall not believe in my good fortune until I have you safely tied to me for life.”

Safe in his arms, she smiled again. “Should I be coy, do you think, and ask for time? Mr. Emsworth says young ladies always refuse offers of matrimony the first time.”

“Damn Emsworth. Shall we make him marry us, my love?”

“No, that would be too unkind—not that he ever cared a rap for me, but imagine the affront to the poor man’s pride.”

“Very well, let it be the bishop then, so long as it is soon. Next week, Marianne?”

“The week after. I must have a wedding dress, I suppose, and other things suitable for your wife. I shall be a sad charge on you, my darling.”

‘Terrible.” He bent to kiss her again. “I do not know how I shall bear it. But, come, the worst of the storm is over, and you are shivering. We must go home.”

“Yes, home. And I thought it could never be that. Oh, Mark, if I am shivering, it is with happiness.”

“If you look at me like that, we shall never get home. Come, up you go. Sadie will come quietly enough now, I think. And that reminds me to give you a terrible scold all the way home for disobeying me.”

“Yes? Shall we start straight in quarreling like a properly married couple?”

“Do you know, I think I loved you first because you would not be afraid of me. Do you remember how you stood up to me about the Martins? And you were right about them, by the way.”

She laughed. “Naturally I was right.”

“Do you intend to be so always?”