The Honorable Marksley (23 page)

By the next morning, Hallie could no longer bear the
confines of her bedroom. She asked Mary to help her
dress. When the maid in turn insisted on accompanying
her downstairs to the dining room, Hallie found she
could not object. The first sight of the stairs left her
feeling more than a little dizzy. But she carefully negotiated her way to the hall, only to be told by Gibbs that
Marksley had already breakfasted and left on Apollo to
visit tenants.

“I had wanted to join him, Gibbs,” she said.

“Yes, my lady. Perhaps once you are well.”

“But I am well. As you see, I … Thank you, Gibbs.”

She would have to do something immediately about
this perception that she was little more than an invalid.
But much as she wished to stride confidently into breakfast, her legs intended her to do something else
altogether. Hallie reached a chair and gratefully
grasped the back, only to notice at least three hovering,
concerned faces. Her husband must have set the whole
household to watching her.

“I am quite all right. Please carry on,” she told them,
even as she dropped into her seat.

Beside her place Marksley had left a stack of papers,
which she recognized as her own. These are Beecham’s,
he had written. I thought you might like to review them
before our soiree.

Hallie glanced at the neatly ordered pages. She felt
the suggestion as a rebuke. That their correspondence
had come to this! She had trapped herself in her own
creation. And she could not review the sheets. She
knew their lying contents by heart.

She was not left to herself for the rest of the day. She
managed to win ten minutes on the terrace only by consenting to dress as though for a blizzard, and, as she
walked slowly across the worn brick, she could see
someone at the door every time she glanced toward the
house. Hallie pointedly kept her gaze on the garden.

Winter, in its impatience, had sighed upon the trees
and flowerbeds. The lingering warmth and color of
three days before had fled even from the late blooming
asters, and though the beeches hoarded their faded copper foliage, many other trees had lost their leaves. In
the slightest of breezes, those still clinging to branches
voiced a rustling protest.

Hallie had always loved autumn with its preparation and tranquil progression. But this year the season’s
melancholy affected her adversely. She had loved fall
when she had supposed spring, and now she would not
be continuing as she had been. Her life as a poet, whether
Henry Beecham were revealed or not, would never be the
same. She must say goodbye to the ways that had sustained her, with no assurance of what was to follow. And
even though she might perform as she ought, act as she
ought, her heart was not ready for bold new adventures.

`Love is a durable fire,’ she recalled, and sought solace in Marksley’s library. The volumes contained wisdom and direction, but could not serve as her proxies.

Marksley did not return in time to join her for dinner.

“He’s up at the Hall,” Mrs. Hepple told her, “making
arrangements” She frowned. “Though ‘tis not like the
master-Lord Langsford-to keep his doings so close.
The housekeeper as is over there told Pickens, that’s the
head gardener, brother of our Thomas, that though the
rooms are being aired, nothing else has been readied.”

Hallie, who had no concept of how such a gathering
was to be planned, merely shrugged. “Perhaps the
Viscount is inviting so many people from London that he
has found it necessary to lodge his visitors elsewhere”

Mrs. Hepple shook her head. “‘Twould not be necessary, milady. Not at Penham” She continued to
frown. “No invitations have been sent to the post”

That did puzzle Hallie, since Marksley had implied
the event would be soon.

“Lord Langsford may be delaying until he feels I am
better,” she suggested.

Mrs. Hepple’s frown fled. “And that does sound just
like him, milady. Ever since he was a boy, he was that
considerate of others”

He had certainly been considerate of her. How comfortable it would be-how cowardly it would besimply to let George continue as Beecham, to hide here
with Marksley and have him learn to care for her. It was
a most seductive thought. But the risk in choosing to do
nothing was comparably great. To the extent he cared
for her now, he might never care for her again, for no
one appreciated being fooled.

She sought relief in sleep, however restless, and in
the morning, heavy-eyed, again made her way down to
breakfast, this time negotiating the steps with little difficulty. Her body was much improved, yet her mind was
far from easy.

She must send her letter to George.

Marksley was seated at the table when she entered
the dining room. He rose and bowed as she moved
toward him.

“I trust you are feeling much better this morning,
Hallie?”

“I am, thank you” For some reason she could not
fathom, she vividly recalled how he had slid his arm
about her shoulders to give her a drink of water.
Coloring, she looked toward the buffet. All she really
wanted was another sip of water-served just the
same way.

“I should just like some toast this morning please,
Gibbs,” she said as she walked to a chair. Marksley was there before her, to pull it out for her before Gibbs
could reach it. Even having him that close caused her
breath to catch in her throat.

As she sat down she sensed him behind her, sensed
that he stared at the back of her head, thought that perhaps he even leaned toward her. She could feel his
breath tease her hair and willed his lips to seek her
nape. He was that close. But he returned to his seat.

“It is no longer the size of a melon,” he remarked with
satisfaction. He took a sip of tea and watched her face.

“Pray sir,” Hallie said, trying to control her unreasoning disappointment. “Which fruit or vegetable does
my skull now resemble?”

“Your skull, my dear, is as attractively shaped as a
skull may be. I would estimate your injury, however, to
be the size of a squashed plum. ‘Twas a flat iron pan
that hit you, after all. Had your head not been as hard
as it has proved to be, you might not have been breakfasting with me now.” For a moment, his gaze was very
direct and serious.

“I descend from a long line of hard heads, my lord,”
Hallie offered. “Notorious for their fortitude.” And for
their stupidity, she added silently.

Marksley raised a brow. “I trust the trait has rarely
been tested so severely.”

“Only in the abstract,” she said lightly. For an instant
their glances locked, in communication that was
strangely paralyzing. Then he turned his attention to
the stacked letters at his side.

Hallie drank her tea and listened to the rustling of pages from Marksley’s reading. The silence was companionable enough, yet she found herself waiting for
something-something more, certainly, than the plate
of toast Gibbs delivered to her.

She set about methodically buttering the hot squares.

Though he held a letter in his hands, Marksley
observed the practice, and her, with an amiable smile,
before he cleared his throat.

“My dear Beecham-” At once Hallie’s knife stilled.
“Forgive me, I mean George Partridge-writes that he
is looking forward to this evening’s event”

“This evening?”

“Yes, I believe we have waited long enough”
Marksley placed the letter to the side before looking up
at her. “If you are feeling quite the thing?”

“I … I am well.”

“I see no reason for delay” Marksley sat back in his
chair and steepled his hands before him. “Several
important guests are housed already at Penham. And
many of those who most closely follow The Tantalus
and literary matters will be leaving London this morning. If you would prefer not to join us tonight, Hallie,
there would be opportunity enough over the next two
days to make the acquaintance of Beecham’s admirers”

“Well, it is a bit sudden-”

“Sudden? I shouldn’t think so. The man has been
eluding us for more than a year. Hiding and feinting
and slipping away. No, the fox has finally been run to
ground. And the hounds must have their triumph.” He
observed Hallie’s involuntary wince and smiled encouragement. “Do not worry, my dear. This is his triumph as well. ‘Tis his craft everyone would celebrate
after all, and our shy versifier willingly agreed to
attend.”

Marksley picked up the letter he had been reading
and waved it at her, as though demonstrating the proof
of his words. Hallie wondered how George, even as
gifted as he was, had managed to copy her script for an
entire letter. But she recalled that he would have had
her own letter to use as a model. He could have done it,
but why would he? She would never have believed him
capable of such a ruse, even to protect her interests.

“Have you had a chance … to read his work?”
Marksley asked.

The soft question pinned her like one of Jeremy’s
fragile specimens. Her lips parted, but no words came.
He seemed so convinced, so content with George as
Beecham.

Marksley watched her.

“I see I was too forward in assigning you reading
while you are still recovering. But I do hope you will
accompany me, my Lady Langsford,” Marskley persisted, “or is your frown answer in itself?”

“I fear I have nothing appropriate to wear to so grand
an occasion.”

“Nonsense. I have seen to it that the dress you selected for our wedding has been finished just as you chose.
Would you not appreciate the opportunity to wear it? I
should like to see you in it.”

“But … we are in mourning-”

“You are still a bride.”

Hallie could not look him in the eye. “I have no
experience … London society is-”

“No worse than one of Augusta Lawes’s suppers,” he
said, then sighed. “Granted, that can be trying enough,
but you have proved yourself more than capable.” He
fixed her with an inquiring gaze. “Would you not like
to see Beecham, your friend George, again?”

“Will he not stay with us?”

For a moment, Marksley looked uncertain. “I have
hopes he might. But it seems unlikely. He has made no
promises.”

No promises! She had made bold promises indeed.
But she was promising to break them.

“You are frowning again, Hallie. Have you …
something to say?”

Her imagination lent urgency to his tone.

“I … should like to join you this evening.”

“Splendid,” he said, though his smile seemed forced.
“I am delighted. `Twould be nothing without you, my
dear. Although I recommend you rest this afternoon.”
He rose from the table and gathered his correspondence. “Please excuse me for now. Perhaps I shall see
you for tea later?”

He paused by her chair and took her right hand in
his. His warm palm swallowed her fingers as he raised
them to his lips. Only the faintest caress skimmed her
knuckles, but it was enough to make her tremble.

She sat very still for a minute after he had left. Her
tea cooled, her toast cooled, but her mind and heart were afire. And Marksley, for all his civility and excuses regarding his pressing correspondence, was clearly
avoiding her. She was not imagining his distance. Why
was he now so impatient of her company? It had been
easier to understand his disdain.

She had wondered if he might learn to love her, if
she might build upon the same qualities of empathy and
understanding that had sustained their correspondence.
But now, it seemed, something about her person was
not to his liking.

He did not join her at all during the day, and Hallie
was too embarrassed to ask Gibbs where her husband
might be. She spent the time in her rooms, submitting
to a last fitting of her dress and sleeping when she could
no longer read. By four, when she had a light tea,
preparatory to bathing and dressing, she was both more
rested and more anxious. The evening promised to be
awkward, to say the least. She would have to find and
speak to George before Marksley made any announcement. And even at this late hour she had not decided
what to say or to whom. They might all assume her
head injury had caused delusions.

Tolly would have been ashamed of her.

Mary enthused over the dress, a gossamer creation
of ivory silk and lace. Mrs. Hepple smiled her approval,
even Gibbs granted Hallie a grin as she entered the
front hall. Only her husband surveyed her with apparent indifference.

“Suits you then, does it?” he asked at last.

“As you see, my lord. ‘Tis hardly sackcloth”

“True enough. Though you would grace even sackcloth, my lady. Shall we go?”

As discomposed by the compliment as by its earlier absence, Hallie nodded her agreement and took his
arm. Outside, the groom held the horses harnessed to
the Penham carriage. The driver gaily tipped his hat
to her.

Marksley helped her to a seat, covered her lap with a
blanket, then took the bench opposite. He tapped the
roof of the carriage. With an easy, concerted surge the
horses pulled forward.

They traveled in silence through the dusk. With
occasional glances Hallie observed Marksley’s fine
formal clothing, the thoughtful set of his features. Tonight, she imagined, he himself might have been called
“The Gorgeous Langsford” But after some time, she
determined he did not look excited.

“You do not appear to be anticipating this …
Richard.” When he glanced rather sharply at her she
wondered why the observation annoyed him. “Or perhaps I assume too much”

“No, you are quite correct” The attempt at a smile
made his too serious demeanor all that much more
noticeable. “I am not anticipating much of anything.
The discovery has been made, has it not?” As Hallie
shrank a bit into her corner, he added, “This evening is
a beginning, certainly. For Beecham and, perhaps, for
myself. Yet, in the best poetic tradition, I am aware as
well of what is ending.”