Rhonda Woodward (17 page)

“There has been some news you may not have heard,” Mrs. Birtwistle began in a conversational tone, for which Marina was grateful.

“Oh?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Langford have left the Ridgeton Abbey house party and returned to their home in Lincolnshire. Mr. Fairdale has left as well. But I understand Mr. Penhurst’s other guests are still in residence.”

“They were all very congenial. I hope they all will visit Parsley Hay again.”

Growing impatient with this conventional chatter, Marina cast about for how to get the conversation to Vicar Ralston’s behavior. However, she could think of no delicate way to broach such an odd subject and decided that there was nothing else for it but to take the direct approach.

“Mrs. Birtwistle, I am sure you could not help noticing the way Vicar Ralston seemed to direct, ah, singular attention my way.”

“Indeed, I did.” Her expression showed a good deal of concern.

“I certainly found it odd and cannot account for it. Forgive me for imposing on you this way, but I am hoping you might have some insight.”

“Dear Miss Buckleigh,” Mrs. Birtwistle hesitated, “I find the Vicar’s behavior most shocking, and if my father were still alive, he would never have abused his role as Vicar in this way.”

“But do you have any notion why he would look at me so sharply when he was speaking of vanity and wanton behavior? The last time I was in church, the Vicar’s regard was unexceptional. I cannot imagine what has occurred since my father’s accident to cause this change in the Vicar.”

“Oh, Miss Buckleigh, you have been through a most trying time, I would not wish to upset you further.”

“Well, as I am already upset, anything you can share will only help.”

Mrs. Birtwistle’s sigh conveyed resignation. “I would certainly like to help. Tell me, Miss Buckleigh, are you aware that my cousin, George Halbury, as well as Henry Willingham have a deep admiration for you?”

Marina decided that she shouldn’t be surprised that this was known. “My father told me that he met with both gentlemen before his accident. I should tell you that my father’s memory has gaps when it comes to the time surrounding the fall and he now has no clear memory of these meetings. Frankly, I have given little thought to either gentleman since Papa’s fall.”

“I see.” They walked for some minutes while Mrs. Birtwistle seemed to choose her words. “Well, please forgive me, but if I continue I would be forced to be indelicate.”

“Please, go on.”

“Some people in the village are saying that your engagement to Henry Willingham is imminent, while others are just as positive that your betrothal to my cousin will be announced any day.”

The shock of these words hit Marina full force and she stopped to stare at Mrs. Birtwistle in astonishment.

“Are you very sure of what you say, Mrs. Birtwistle?”

“I’m afraid so. I am sorry to tell you that there has been quite a bit of talk.”

Marina digested this information, feeling completely dismayed. At least Sefton’s name had not been mentioned in this insulting mess. Thank goodness, for that cad was the last thing this scandal broth needed.

“If it is any comfort, I do not believe anyone but those seated in the first few pews noticed the Vicar’s marked attention. Perhaps inviting him to tea and explaining your perspective would stop his censorious looks.”

Marina felt her temper rise even more and the stubborn streak she’d spent her whole life trying to curb asserted itself. “It is not for me to explain myself to him.”

“Spoken like Miss Buckleigh of Buck Hill,” Mrs. Birtwistle said, her tone approving. “So how do you propose to deal with the speculation? It behooves me to tell you that any hint that the very proper Miss Buckleigh has stepped a foot wrong is stirring gossip throughout the village.”

“I have no doubt,” Marina said hotly. “I must think on this and decide the best way to move forward. My father must not hear of this; we have been trying to keep him as quiet as possible during his recovery—he is still quite fragile, you see. Oh, I am so angry! I would like to call them out myself.”

“I would, too, if I were in your shoes.”

“I thank you for your honesty, Mrs. Birtwistle, at least I know what I am up against.”

They continued to walk in the cool midday air, and Marina was glad of it for it gave her time to mull over everything she had learned.

A new and oddly disturbing notion began to emerge from the myriad of thoughts swirling in her head. “Mrs. Birtwistle, do you know if Lord Cortland still numbers as one of the guests at Ridgeton Abbey?”

According to Deirdre, the Marquis had visited Buck Hill a few days ago. Marina had been distressed to have missed him, for she had not thanked him properly after he had carried her into the house when she had fainted upon hearing Papa had regained consciousness.

She had considered writing him a note but felt uncharacteristically shy every time she put quill to paper. She also suspected that any gesture she made would be met with his characteristic cool amusement.

Because of the enormity of recent events, and her rising confusion where he was concerned, she had repeatedly put off the task. Yet, he was constantly in her thoughts.

“I do believe that he is. He and Mr. Penhurst called upon us the other day and were most amiable.”

There was a quality in Mrs. Birtwistle’s voice that had not been there before. Marina gave her a sideways glance.

“However,” the widow continued in a breezier tone, “Mr. Penhurst’s sister does not acknowledge my existence so it rather puts me in an awkward position when it comes to calling on Ridgeton Abbey. I suppose I shall just send my brother to call without me.”

“You know, I’ve had quite enough of everyone’s rude behavior. Lady Darley may be very accomplished and sophisticated and the granddaughter of an earl, but my mother is Lady Buckleigh of Buck Hill, and in the mood I am in, I’m in mind to hint to her that Lady Darley could use a proper set-down.”

Mrs. Birtwistle laughed. “You will do no such thing. After all, I cannot blame Lady Darley for looking down her nose at me.”

“Well, I most certainly can.”

Chapter Seventeen

Cortland and Pen came in from a morning of inspecting some of the estate’s long-neglected outbuildings to find the ladies of the house, home from church, in a flap.

“You must join us!” Vanessa Darley, standing in the doorway of the red drawing room, urged. “It was quite the most diverting thing I have seen in a year. You should have been there! You too, Cortland, for it has to do with your paragon.”

Since her eyes sparkled with mischief, Cortland set aside his immediate concern that bad news had arrived from Buck Hill. After divesting themselves of their greatcoats, they joined Lady Darley, Aunt Meredith, and an anxious-looking Eugenia.

Cortland was glad to see that Sefton was not in the room. In fact, Sefton had obligingly been making himself scarce of late. He’d taken up reading in Pen’s well-stocked library nearly every afternoon, and often only joined the rest of the house party at mealtimes, where he always sat as far from Eugenia as possible.

However, since the Langfords and Fairdale had departed, the tension between Cortland and Sefton was becoming more difficult to camouflage. As long as his aunt and cousin were in residence—and Vanessa Darley had been insisting that everyone stay another month complete—then Cortland did not intend to leave his cousin vulnerable to Sefton’s practiced charm.

It was a credit to Pen’s good nature and Vanessa’s well-polished manners that their hosts did not seem to notice any of the strain between their guests.

Cortland suspected that Sefton had been hoping to outstay him, counting on Cortland’s duties and responsibilities to take him away long before now. It stirred Cortland’s cynical sense of humor to know that Sefton was growing more uncomfortable as each day passed.

No doubt, once he accepted that Eugenia and Miss Buckleigh were beyond his reach, he would have to move on sooner rather than later, in hopes of finding better hunting grounds elsewhere.

“Lud, you look like the cat that swallowed the canary,” Pen said to his sister as he took his seat.

Moving to a wing chair by the window, Cortland had to agree with his friend’s observation. He’d rather be dealing with the correspondence that had been stacking up, as annoying as he found it, than listen to a ration of provincial gossip—except that Miss Buckleigh’s name had been mentioned.

Looking at his aunt questioningly, he said, “What has occurred?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Aunt Meredith said, sending him a helpless look.

“If it hadn’t been so strange, Cortland,” Vanessa interjected, “I would not have been able to keep from laughing, but, oh, I feel dreadful for poor Miss Buckleigh.”

“Why? What has happened to her?”

Aunt Meredith pressed her lips together. “It was the oddest sermon I have ever heard. It hardly made coherent sense.”

“What does a sermon have to do with Miss Buckleigh?” Cortland asked.

“Vicar Ralston looked right at Miss Buckleigh when he spoke about Jezebel! And he practically wiggled his brows in her direction whenever he spoke of vanity and pride, or of being modest and humble,” Eugenia said in a shocked voice. “I would have been mortified beyond measure, but Miss Buckleigh didn’t bat an eye, though she did not stay to visit with anyone after the service was over.”

“Good Lord, what do you mean?” Pen asked, confusion on his blunt features.

“The sermon this morning was on morals,” Vanessa explained, “and how one must be on guard against the evils of pride and vanity, throwing in a bit about Jezebel. As Eugenia has stated, it seemed to be for the particular edification of Miss Marina Buckleigh.”

She looked at Cortland, her smile still full of delight. “I spoke to Mrs. Hollings and Mrs. Willingham afterwards and they hinted strongly that Miss Buckleigh’s behavior has been shockingly fast.”

“How so?” her brother asked. “She has hardly left her house since the accident. Her behavior has been exceedingly proper, and shows a devotion to her father that is admirable. What are people accusing her of?”

“It’s clear, from what Mrs. Willingham hinted, that Miss Buckleigh is not quite the shining example everyone in Parsley Hay has always believed her to be—she has encouraged
several
young men in their addresses to her. She has been leading them a merry dance and has only been found out because her father has been too ill to keep her in check.”

“Bah,” Pen waved a hand. “Sounds like jealousy, if you ask me. Miss Buckleigh cannot help it if young men pay her particular attention. Mrs. Birtwistle certainly has nothing but the highest regard for Miss Marina.”

Vanessa looked askance at her brother. “Mrs. Birtwistle! As if
I
would ever take
her
opinion on anyone. No, Lord Cortland had the right of it from the beginning. Cortland, you recall, I’m sure. At our ball, when we were discussing our new neighbors, you said, ‘Miss Marina Buckleigh is the kind of paragon who usually ends up in a scandal.’ I daresay you saw something before the rest of us did.”

Cortland leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. “I do recall making that comment,” he replied in a bored tone, unwilling to give her any reason to suspect his true feelings.

The gleeful sparkle left Vanessa’s blue eyes. “Even so, it certainly looks as if several of the local swains feel they have been treated rather shabbily by Miss Buckleigh. I, for one, cannot wait to see how it all turns out.”

Her tone held a note of defiance, even malice that surprised him a little. He wondered if life in such a small village, so far from the more sophisticated delights and excitements of London, suited Vanessa Darley.

Aunt Meredith cleared her throat and said, “Well, I do not wish to judge Miss Buckleigh so harshly yet, especially after the horrible time she and her family have had of late. We may yet find, despite the Vicar’s behavior, that this is all a storm in a teacup.”

Vanessa nodded quickly. “That is certainly true, Lady Meredith. But in my experience, where there is smoke there is fire.”

“I agree,” Cortland drawled, “however, one should make certain where the fire is coming from.”

***

Marina and Mrs. Birtwistle parted where the lane forked, one direction leading to Fielding Manor, the other to Buck Hill.

“Again, Miss Buckleigh, I cannot tell you how good it is to hear that the good Baron is improving.”

Thank you, Mrs. Birtwistle. And thank you for being so open with me. It is most appreciated.”

“Miss Buckleigh, I know the Vicar’s actions will have tongues wagging even more, but I do hope you will not let it upset you unduly.”

Marina felt utterly deflated for a moment, then an unexpected flash of humor came to her rescue.

“They can all have me for breakfast for all I care.” She waved her arm in an expansive gesture toward the village.

Mrs. Birtwistle laughed. “That’s the spirit.”

Their eyes met with a new understanding. If anyone in Parsley Hay knew how it felt to be the target of gossip, it was certainly Catherine Birtwistle.

“May I call on your family in a day or two?” Mrs. Birtwistle asked, still smiling.

“Yes, please do, Mrs. Birtwistle, we shall look forward to it.”

With that, Marina turned to walk the last mile or so home, grateful for the solitude to mull her thoughts.

It had been so long since she had taken a walk of any kind that she realized with a real sense of wonder that while they had been practically living in Papa’s library for nearly the last month, spring had arrived.

It was that magical time of year, when the air could still hold a heavy chill, yet the light was stronger, and hints of green were beginning to show up on shrubs and tree branches.

Despite her mortifying experience at church, her heart was strangely lighter at just the idea of spring. It brought a warm feeling of renewal and hope. She walked on, enjoying the exercise and taking notice of even the smallest sign of new growth and life in the countryside.

It occurred to her that much more had changed than just the season.

Papa’s horrible accident had plunged her into the deepest despair, and then when he regained consciousness, she was launched into soaring gratitude. Because of this experience, a new and different perspective of her life had emerged.

Pausing, she knelt to examine a clump of wild lavender on the bank of the lane. Flower spikes were already growing out of the grayish green stems, and would no doubt bloom in a week or so.

Before Papa’s accident, she had often wondered why the path her parents—indeed, everyone she ever knew—expected her to take did not satisfy her.

She had put down her restlessness to a character flaw she needed to correct, wayward emotions she needed to control.

Now, she saw things differently. The precious gift of life could be snatched in an instant. On those nights she had sat next to her very ill papa, she sometimes wondered if she had been the one lying at the brink of death, would she have been happy with the life she had led?

The answer had come swiftly and clearly: No, she unequivocally would not. For most of her nearly twenty years, she had settled for a predictable, conventional life.

Lord Cortland’s word came to mind instantly—
Miss Buckleigh, I believe you are far from unconventional, if that reassures you any.

Well, that was no longer who she wanted to be! Leave it to other girls to be grateful for the likes of
conventional
Henry Willingham or George Halbury. Leave it to other girls to be flattered by the duplicitous Mr. Sefton.

No longer did she want to marry someone just because it was expected, or because her parents approved, or even because he was handsome.

She wanted something more.

She may have been infatuated with Sefton—she could easily admit this now. However, the feeling had begun to fade quickly, even before she learned of his shabby treatment of Eugenia Brandon.

It no longer satisfied to dream stet of clandestine waltzes in starlight. She wanted more. And when Cortland had looked so deeply into her eyes and kissed her, she had felt more. So much more.

She wanted a different kind of life. She wanted to be truly in love and share her life with someone who did not see her as merely pretty, or suitable, or the means to a large dowry.

She wanted someone who saw her as she really was, someone like—Lord Cortland.

Lord Cortland!

Stopping cold, she clamped a hand over her mouth as if she had said the startling words aloud.

She tried to thrust the shocking thought away. Lord Cortland was the last man she should consider! But in this new spirit of being honest with herself, she took a tentative look at this soul-shaking thought.

From the first moment she met him, when she had called him an ill-mannered lout, she had been aware of a vibrant feeling of anticipation and excitement whenever he was near.

He had stood back, watching them all so aloofly, yet he had been the one to step forward without hesitation when Papa had been so badly hurt. He had held her securely in his strong arms, and given her courage when she thought the worst had happened.

Lord Cortland had never flattered her, or pretended to be something he was not.

Her hand moved to her heart, which now beat as if she had been running.

The truth of it was so clear, so obvious, that she did not even question it.

She loved Fitzhugh Hawksmoor, Marquis of Cortland.

The fierce joy of knowing filled her heart. When she was with him, she never felt the need to check her words or curb her actions. When she was with him, she was her true self.

Cortland was someone who so obviously lived, truly lived, without settling or compromising or apologizing. More than anything, she wanted that for herself.

The aching pain of realization swiftly followed this wondrous thought.

Men like the Marquis of Cortland did not marry young ladies like Marina Buckleigh of Parsley Hay.

“Miss Buckleigh.”

With a start and a gasp, she turned around to see Sefton riding up the lane on a chestnut horse. His beaver top hat and nutmeg-colored coat highlighted his beautiful aquamarine eyes.

But this time, his classically handsome features left her unmoved.

“Mr. Sefton.” She could think of nothing more polite to say to him.

Gracefully, he dismounted and approached her swiftly, taking her hand before she could snatch it back.

“I cannot express how I have longed to see you.”

With her thoughts and emotions still reeling from realizing that she loved Cortland, she hardly knew how to respond. The only thing she wanted was for him to take himself off and leave her with her thoughts.

“As you can imagine, we have been busy at Buck Hill of late.” She didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm from her tone.

However, he seemed undaunted and continued to look deeply into her eyes with an expression she could only describe as yearning.

“Of course.” He finally released her hand. “I do hope your butler has informed you of my visits. Although, while your good father was so ill, I never expected to be admitted—I just wished you to know of my regard, my very deep regard, for you.”

Tilting her head to the side, she considered him for a moment. He really was rather impressive. His ability to feign sincerity had her almost believing this show. It was easy to see how he’d been able to dupe Miss Brandon.

“Thank you, Mr. Sefton. I must return home. Good day.”

Surprise replaced his earnest expression, but apparently, he did not intend to give up so easily.

“I understand. Please allow me to escort you. I have been most gratified to hear from Lady Darley that Lord Buckleigh improves daily.”

“Yes, he does, thank you. It is not necessary to see me home, sir.”

Ignoring her cold tone, he began walking beside her, holding his horse’s reins.

It reminded her of when Lord Cortland had walked beside her before their kiss. Strange how the company of one man could be so deeply exciting, and welcome, while the mere presence of another man could be nearly repulsive.

They walked in silence for several minutes and she sensed him working himself up to speak. She wondered how he had developed such a colossal nerve.