Maulever Hall (30 page)

“Oh, my God.” This was turning the tables indeed. “I never thought of that. But you must believe me when I tell you that I did write the fullest explanation I could to
y
ou. I can only imagine that Martha destroyed it, in the hopes of making still more trouble.”

He laughed, the wild sardonic laugh that she remembered and feared. “She certainly succeeded. But tell me, pray, what was this explanation of yours? You were my affianced bride, remember? It is hard to believe now, is it not? We were to be married within a week. Can you imagine it? My mother’s first words when she came downstairs that morning were of wedding favors. Then—I had to tell her. And you blame me that she is ill.”

“You must let me explain.”

“I am eager to do so.” But his face remained closed and hard as ever.

“You see—I had learned that I was married—or so I thought.”

“Married! Not, I take it, to His Grace, the Duke of Lundy?” His fierce, sardonic glance swept over her figure in its flounces of silver gauze. “I must say that for a married lady, you give a very good imitation of a debutante. If I did not know better, I might fall in love with you myself, so innocent you look in that dress. I wish you the best of luck, Miss Lamb, but spare me, I beg, your explanations, which can only insult my intelligence still further.”

She was fighting back tears. “Mark, try to understand. A man came—a stranger—and told me he was my husband; proved it to me, as I thought. And—there was worse than that. It must have meant a scandal ruinous to your career.”

“Should not I have been the best judge of that? If you had loved me as I loved you, you would at least have given me the chance. Oh, don’t cry, Miss Lamb; it is too late for that. And you will ruin your ball gown.” Angrily, he held out his handkerchief. His use of the past tense had been too much for her self-command.

“As if I cared for that. Oh, Mark—” But the door behind him had opened, to reveal Lady Heverdon and, behind her, anxiously hovering, the Duke.

“Thank God I have found you.” Lady Heverdon swept forward with a swoosh of crimson draperies. “Your mother has vanished, Mark. I have looked for her everywhere. I hardly dare think what new mischief she may have got herself into. Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Lamb. I declare I quite failed to recognize you in that dress. I hope I see you well.” Her curtsy, as she spoke, was the most delicate of mockeries.

Returning it, Marianne spoke to Mark. “Your mother is upstairs, in my room. My maid is looking after her. I
think
it will be best if she spends the night here.”

“You are very kind,” he said formally. “If it is not too much trouble.”

“Of course it is no trouble. I love Mrs. Mauleverer.” She added it almost angrily.

“I am relieved to think her in such good hands.” Lady Heverdon’s voice was mocking. “At what time shall we send the carriage for her tomorrow?”

“No need to do so.” The Duke had come forward to Marianne’s side. “I am sure Miss Lamb would enjoy a longer visit from her friend
...
”

“Oh, thank you.” Marianne turned to him impulsively, grateful for his support.

“I must thank you, too.” But Mauleverer’s brow was darker, his expression more savage than ever.

“Only best not let her play at cards.” Lady Heverdon laid her hand lightly on Mauleverer’s arm. “They are striking up for the cotillion, Mark; I would not miss it for anything.” There was no mistaking the propriet
a
ry gesture with which she led him away.

The door closed with a little sigh behind them. Marianne found she was still twisting Mauleverer’s handkerchief between her hands. She raised her tear-drowned eyes to the Duke. “Thank you,” she said again.

“I am sorry—” He broke off. “No, I’ll not pretend to be sorry. He is a fool—and a mannerless one at that. How could he—” Again he broke off, moved a little nearer to her and began again: “Miss Lamb—Marianne—I know I should wait longer, but I cannot bear to see you like this. I do not hope for anything; I do not expect anything, but let me just give myself the happiness of telling you how much I love you. I know it can seem merely an ill-timed intrusion on your sorrow, but—remember me, will you?”

“Oh!” And then, after a little pause: “I’m sorry—” And the tears came in a flood at last.

“Don’t be
sor
r
y,
Marianne.” How did she come to be in his arms? “Loving is worth it. I know you can only t
hink
of me, now, as a refuge—a support in your trouble. I am only too happy if you
will
think of me as that. And, perhaps, some day
...
”

“No.” She raised her drenched face to his. “It would not be fair. I love him too much. I can never get over it.”

He dried her face gently with his own handkerchief.

“Never is a long day, Marianne. Only, remember, I shall always be here.” He raised her hands that still held Mauleverer’s handkerchief, kissed first one and then the other, then let her go. “And now, if you do not want a perfectly devastating scold from my aunt, we had best go back to our guests. Can you face them?”

“Of course I can. Your Grace, you have given me back my courage.” And she let him take her arm and lead her back to the ballroom.

It was still comparatively early and there were hours of evening to be got through, now without the stimulus of hope. Marianne danced her way dutifully through her list of partners, smiled, sat out, ate chicken and champagne at the Duke’s side, and wondered if the ball would ever end. And all the time, wherever she turned, she seemed to see Mauleverer, assiduous at Lady Heverdon’s side. Even the Duchess commented on it in her dry dispassionate way. “She’s left that cousin of hers at home tonight,” she said, “and makes the new lord dance attendance instead.” Her wise old eyes preached endurance to Marianne. “ ‘Time and the hour run through the longest day.’ ” And then: “Do you realize that you are a mad success, my dear? We shall have paragraphs in all the papers tomorrow.”

“But no one has recognized me.”

“Or if they have,” said the Duchess, “they have kept very quiet about it. I wonder
...
” She did not say what she wondered. Instead: “John tells me Mrs. Mauleverer stays the night.”

“Yes; she is not well. I do hope you do not think it forward of me to invite her.”

“Fiddle,” said the Duchess. “Are we really on such terms, you and I? Besides, John tells me he invited her. Poor John.” Her voice said that she knew everything. And then, “Marianne, if you cry here, I will shake you, coram publico. Duke”—and this time it was the Duke of Wellington she summoned—“come and talk some sense into this ward of mine. She actually thinks Mrs. Jordan a better actress than Mrs. Siddons.”

The hours dragged by. Candles winked and sputtered in their sockets; the new gas chandeliers were heating up alarmingly; the rooms were emptying at last when the weary musicians struck up for one last quadrille, and the Duke came to claim Marianne’s hand. “It is really the very last.” He led her out to the top of the set. “And I know you wish to end as gallantly as you have carried on.”

“Thank you.” But, despite herself, her eyes had traveled down the room to where Mauleverer stood facing Lady Heverdon. “You have been very kind.”

“I have been very selfish.”

“I don’t think you know how to be selfish. Oh, I wish
...
”

“So do I.” But the dance had begun. Only once, as she moved through it, did she have to encounter Mauleverer. His hand, when he touched hers, was cold as ice, his eyes seemed not to see her; the music changed and he passed on down the room.

From the doorway, now, came the footmen’s stentorian cries as one by one carriages drew up to collect the exhausted guests. “Lady Heverdon’s carriage stops the way,” was the cry now, and Marianne saw Mauleverer leave the set to escort her home. “It is all over,” she told herself. “Finished.”

“There”—the Duke seemed to echo her thought—“it is finished. And you are exhausted. Do not wait for the last guests to go; that is my part. Try and get some sleep.” He smiled. “For, indeed, it is morning already. The morning always comes, Miss Lamb.”

“You mean: it is always darkest, before the dawn.” But she smiled back at him, grateful for the attempt at comfort, before she turned away to climb slowly up the great stair down which she had swept with such hopes.

XV

The aftermath of a ball is always depressing. When Marianne woke, late and jaded to inevitable gray December weather, the great house was still in the process of being tidied up. Fanny, bringing her chocolate and rolls in bed, strongly urged the desirability of her staying there. “It’s nothing but confusion belowstairs, miss, and you look a trifle peaked, if you don’t mind my saying so. Nor there’s nothing in the world to get up for. His Grace has gone out of town on business—up first thing, he was, and gave his
orders.” A sharp look questioned Marianne’s responsibility for this. “And the Duchess, she’s writing letters and says she’s in a devil of a bad temper—excusing me, miss, but them’s her words—and not to be disturbed. And as for the old lady; she’s sleeping like a baby in the room next door; I borrowed a draught for her from Her Grace’s maid and she looks to be making up several weeks’ sleep. Why don’t you try and do so too, miss? You could do with it.”

But Marianne could not rest. She was up and dressed in a warm walking dress of dark red merino when Fanny reappeared with a note for her. “The callers have started already,” she announced, “but they’re being sent away fast enough. You should hear the lies: ‘Her Grace is slightly indisposed.’ I wish they could hear what she said. Oh”—she handed over the note—“this came for you. No answer, he said.”

From Mauleverer? Marianne opened it with a hand that would shake; and read:

I must see you. There is something you need to know. Tell no one, for your own sake and that of those you love. Perhaps you were right not to trust me before. This time you must. I shall await you at the entrance to the Park.
And the signature, in the unknown, precise handwriting:
Paul R.

“The entrance to the Park.” She moved to the window and looked up across Park Lane. Despite the cold, the usual little group of idlers was gathered there. A man, muffled to the eyes in rags, was selling hot chestnuts; a woman called her wares in a voice so hoarse as to be incomprehensible. The place was admirably chosen for a secret meeting.
Tell no one
...
She did not want to meet Paul Rossand once more alone. And yet, if she took a companion, he would be bound to see and would simply disappear once more. Besides, who could she take? If only the Duke had been at home, she might have consulted him. The Duchess? No, she was in “a devil of a bad temper.” Best see Rossand first. After all, there was no possible chance of her coming to harm in so public a place as Hyde Park. It would be time enough to tell the Duchess about it when she returned.

It had taken her hardly any time to make up her mind. “I am going out for a turn in the Park,” she told Fanny, “fetch me my warmest pelisse.” How odd it was to have, actually, a choice of clothes to wear and how convenient that Fanny was much too much in awe of her to do more than look her protest at a young lady’s venturing out unaccompanied.

It was good to be out and good, too, to be alone for once. She dodged her way through the carriages on Park Lane and walked briskly along the other side. The woman pe
d
dl
e
r had disappeared, but the chestnut seller was still there, surrounded by an eager little crowd of boys. Pausing for a moment to watch them, Marianne took the chance to look about her. No sign of Rossand. She shrugged, and entered the Park. Perhaps it was all a hoax. She took a brisk turn along a path that crackled with frost under her feet. Back to the entrance, then once more out among the leafless trees. If he did not appear before she got back to the entrance, she would wait no longer. She lingered for a moment at the point where she had turned before, admiring frost patterns on the shady side of a silver birch tree. Her feet were cold in their thin shoes. Now, she would go home.

“Miss Lamb.” He was so near her that she started despite herself. “I am glad to see that you have come alone.”

“Yes, but I do not intend to stay. So, tell me quickly what it is that you have to say to me.” As on the last time, he was closely wrapped in a heavy traveling cloak, but she would have known that sallow face and lisping voice anywhere. Only, this time, more experienced in society, she recognized that the cloak almost certainly hid the elegant garb of a young man of fashion. Young? Impossible to be sure, but certainly not old. And, more than ever she was sure of this, not to be trusted.

But, “I wish you would understand that I am your friend,” he said.

“Why should I? You lied to me before.”

“Yes.” He admitted it at once. “But for your own sake. Now I am come to tell you the truth. You may wish I had gone on lying.”

“What can you mean?”

“Let us walk.” He would have taken her arm, but she moved a little away from him. “It is too cold for you to be standing. Besides, for your own sake, and that of others, you will not wish us to be overheard. You really are alone?”