The Impossible Ward (11 page)

“I thought it advisable to remove you from Ebony’s side before you considered it your duty to croon him to sleep,” the marquess declared with a teasing smile that brought a slight flush to Marianne’s cheeks and a responsive quiver to her lips. “From your lovely speaking voice I would hazard a guess that you sing delightfully,” he added, and watched with chagrin as the familiar closed expression wiped the animation from her features.

“You would be mistaken in your guess, my lord,” she replied stiffly. “I have no accomplishments at all.” Before he had recovered from this snub, she had murmured an excuse and retired to her room to remove her bonnet, leaving the marquess to indulge some sour reflections on the unpredictability of the female of the species.

Despite this rather daunting episode, the rest of the day passed quite pleasantly. The marquess and his young ward did not meet again until just before dinner, and for the duration of this excellent repast and the remainder of the quiet evening he exercised his practiced charm of manner to insure that the conversation flowed smoothly and amicably, and never once touched upon anything but the merest commonplace. Every mild attempt on the part of the marchioness to turn from strictly impersonal subjects was parried gently but inexorably by her son. After this performance Marianne could scarcely have been criticized for suspecting that her enigmatic trustee deemed women quite ineligible for any but the most superficial conversation, had she not already gleaned this from his demeanor at Friday’s small dinner party, and his customary attitude toward Claire and his mother. With Claire his manner was condescendingly flirtatious, and although it was patently obvious to the meanest intelligence that he adored his lovely mother, in his ward’s view at least, filial respect was a good deal diluted with the type of affectionate indulgence one might display toward a precocious child. He organized her life with just the right touch of deference, but whether or not Lady Lunswick automatically accepted his control or merely
allowed
him to manage her was an intriguing point upon which Marianne did not yet feel able to pass judgment. Although fully conscious of the marquess’ adroit handling of the conversational ball, she could not deny that this was the first time she had felt comfortable during a prolonged period in her trustee’s exacting presence. His descriptions of the immediate locale and of Bath proved both interesting and enlightening. She was itching to begin exploring the area both on foot and on her beautiful Ebony. Altogether it was the pleasantest evening she had spent since leaving her grandfather’s house and she went to bed glowing with eager anticipation of her first ride on the neat little black, which made more inexplicable the slight heaviness of mood that settled on her within minutes of awakening the following morning.

When Marianne entered the sunny breakfast room a bare half hour later, it was to find a determinedly cheerful hostess as its only occupant. A crumpled napkin at one end of the table gave mute evidence that the marquess had already eaten. She closed her eyes briefly on the sight, and after clearing her throat slightly, turned a smiling face to the marchioness with a bright inquiry as to the hour of his lordship’s departure.

“Oh, Justin would not leave without bidding you good-bye, my dear child. He just stepped into his study for a moment to retrieve something or other.”

Despite her efforts to achieve nonchalance the marchioness was already regretfully conscious of the void her son’s absence would make. “Thank goodness for your visit, Marianne. I must confess I find myself sadly cast down whenever Justin goes up to Town, though of course, I
wish
him to lead a life of his own. I detest possessive mothers. For a time after Harry’s death he did not care to see any of his old friends, and that was truly awful. He seemed
haunted.
Had not Andrew fallen into a scrape at Oxford that necessitated Justin’s intervention, I do not know how long this state might have lasted. The necessity for action snapped him out of that frightening mood.” She chuckled softly. “I vow I must have been the first mother to
welcome
her son’s peccadilloes, and I was hard pressed to present a properly disapproving air to Andrew when he came home, so relieved as I was to see the change in Justin that I had to constrain myself from casting myself on Andrew’s neck in gratitude.”

The subject of her remarks entered the room at that moment, clad in a fawn-colored driving coat that must have borne upwards of a dozen capes. A brown beaver set at a jaunty angle provided a dashing contrast to carelessly waving gold-streaked hair. He was wearing one immaculate kid glove and carrying the other as well as an envelope, which he proceeded to lay on the table at Marianne’s right hand.

“We had a bit of unfinished business to attend to,” he explained smoothly, in response to her puzzled glance at the envelope. He extended the ungloved hand and clasped hers firmly for a brief instant, wishing her an enjoyable visit in a friendly impersonal tone to which she replied with an equally cool wish for his safe journey.

The marquess had reached the door after a last embrace for his determinedly smiling mother, when he paused momentarily and pinned his ward with a sardonic shaft from amber eyes.

“Be sure to read your daily quota of improving literature while I am away, Lady Marianne, and don’t miss me too much.”

“Oh dear, and I had so looked forward to reading nothing save trashy novels from the lending libraries in Bath while I pined for your return, Lord Lunswick,” she replied in disappointed tones, and could not repress a smile at his delighted shout of laughter. With a friendly wave of the hand holding the glove, his large athletic figure disappeared through the doorway.

After an instant of suspended animation both ladies resolutely tore their eyes from the empty door frame and turned to each other with some bright remark.

CHAPTER SEVEN

In the spinney the late afternoon stillness was rudely shattered by the thunder of rapid hoofbeats approaching, not from the tree-bordered lane, but from across a meadow which still showed faint traces of green amongst the yellowed grass. A squirrel furiously chattered his annoyance at this potential interruption of his labors and scooted swiftly up to a safe perch in an oak tree. In the next moment any appreciative eyes amongst the woodland denizens could have been gladdened by the impressive spectacle of a magnificent black horse clearing the hedge dividing the lane from the meadow in a soaring leap. Not until the proximity of the spinney made such speed dangerous did the thunder lessen, as if both horse and rider shared an equal reluctance to abandon the wild gallop. As the sunshine of the field dissolved and was consumed in the dusky glow of the woods, Lady Marianne Carstairs bent over the neck of her now sedately trotting mount and crooned appreciation into his perked ears, reflecting exultantly on the advantages of having given her groom the slip for once. Certainly Brownley would have roundly condemned that last exhilarating stretch. At heart, the girl strongly suspected, the marquess’ trusted groom stringently disapproved of any gait faster than a sober trot for those persons laboring under the disadvantages of being born into the feminine gender. Only Marianne’s very real devotion to her considerate hostess prevented her from forthrightly dispensing with the groom’s escort and allowing the chips to fall where they might, but it was unthinkable that she should repay the great kindness of the marchioness by becoming the object of censorious conjecture amongst the local populace.

Unconsciously she sighed deeply, guiltily aware that despite her affection she was quietly resisting certain aspects of her hostess’ design for her education as a lady of quality. Certainly she was enjoying the resumption of instruction on the pianoforte being provided by Mrs. Huntingdon, a talented performer and patient teacher, and was, after a mere four weeks, experiencing some return of her former proficiency on that instrument. In addition to sponsoring the challenge and joy brought about by the resumption of her protégée’s musical education, the marchioness had introduced her to a completely new world of pleasure with the introduction into her household of a dancing master from Bath. Marianne, who had never so much as witnessed a performance of any save country dances, was enchanted with the waltz and more complicated quadrille. It would have been an impossible task to decide who was the more delighted to discover her aptitude for this graceful pastime, Lady Lunswick, playing the music for the lessons with an air of a proud parent displaying her offspring’s precocity, or Marianne herself. The latter’s pleasure in this new accomplishment was appreciably augmented by sharing the lessons with Sophia Huntingdon. The two girls, much of an age, had quickly discovered in each other a certain mutuality of interests, as well as an agreeable similarity of tastes, and were already fast friends. Both were indefatigable walkers, delighting, whenever the uncertain weather permitted, to spend hours out of doors rambling over the estate. Marianne found Sophia the perfect companion on these outings, and was continually amazed and entertained by the encyclopedic knowledge of the local flora displayed by the vicar’s shy daughter. So reluctant was Sophia to push herself forward that several weeks elapsed before Marianne was allowed a glimpse of a few of the exquisitely detailed drawings her friend delighted in making of the plants that so intrigued her. Utterly devoid of artistic talent herself, Marianne could yet appreciate the skill that raised Sophia’s lovely sketches and water-colors out of the ordinary class of nature studies. She was firmly convinced that her friend’s work was of exhibition standard, but Sophia merely smiled and disclaimed any extraordinary degree of skill, and quickly returned her work to her portfolio over Marianne’s protests.

Both Mrs. Huntingdon and Lady Lunswick took pleasure in promoting the sisterly comradeship that had sprung up between the girls, realizing that circumstances had denied to both the privilege of growing up in a good-sized family. Sophia, to be sure, was possessed of a brother, but as he was some dozen years her senior and had married while she was still in short coats, she could not be said to have profited by the give and take of ordinary family living, while for her part, Marianne had been raised entirely by elderly grandparents, and with the single exception of Jack Richmond had never been exposed to members of her own generation. When Jonathan and Margery came to live on the farm, Marianne had taken a friendly interest in the welfare of the young family, but Sophia was the first female friend of her own order, and she was vastly enjoying the experience. The dear marchioness gladly supplied another commodity that had been sadly lacking in Marianne’s life for many years—maternal affection. The girl had blossomed in the warmth of her affection. She honestly felt she could never repay her hostess’ many kindnesses, so why then this nagging restlessness, the occasional burst of rebellion that overcame her good intentions to be tractable and obedient to the wishes of her hostess? Marianne’s face reflected her troubled spirit as Ebony daintily picked his way through fallen leaves and small branches.

Young ladies of quality did not ride
ventre a terre
through deserted meadows without the escort of a groom, neither did they regret the curtailment of the satisfying physical labor connected with managing a farm. Before the marquess’ sudden appearance, her life had been too full of tiring daily chores to encourage serious reflection on her future. Though the hours spent with her grandfather and the rector had been devoted to abstract philosophical or literary discussion, the topic of her own personal future had somehow never seemed vital. Now she had too much time for reflection, and she derived no comfort from her thoughts. The marchioness seemed to take for granted her entrance into London Society and eventual marriage, but to Marianne any extended period away from her grandfather was unthinkable. At eighty-two he could not be uprooted from the placid existence he enjoyed in Yorkshire or deprived of the stimulating companionship of his old friend. The obvious solution was to bring her visit to a close in a perfectly amicable fashion and return to the farm, but in exercising the honesty of intellect embedded in her by her grandfather, she could no longer deny that her earlier reluctance to embark on an adventure apart from the secluded life she led at home had been eroded by the pleasures of her visit to this luxurious estate. Despite her very real longing to see her grandfather and assure herself of his welfare, she had to acknowledge that she would be reluctant to relinquish the companionship of Lady Lunswick and Sophia, and even, to her eternal discredit, the proximity of a large city full of frivolous attractions such as theaters and fashionable clothes. Somehow she had become filled with nebulous longings and a restlessness she could not account for. Although her grandfather’s rather abstracted communications did not alarm her about his circumstances, she could not be entirely content away from him. Nor could she accept the marchioness’ unstated, airy assumption that her visit was of indefinite length to be terminated by a hypothetical marriage some time in the vague future. A frown wrinkled her brow. She should, of course, muster up enough resolution to confront her trustee and demand that he agree to a time for the termination of her visit. Her frown deepened as she admitted to herself that this action would not be entirely agreeable, although she was persuaded it was the proper decision.

Not that she had been granted an opportunity to confront her trustee about anything at all, for he had been on an extended stay in London since a few days after her arrival in Somerset. It was already the first week in December. She had received two cheerful letters from her grandfather that dealt more thoroughly with conditions in the Eighteenth Dynasty in Egypt than those in rural Yorkshire at present. She also had more prosaic communications from Jack and the rector conveying comfortable tidings of her grandfather’s health and spirits, but she could not be entirely easy in her mind about leaving him to Clara’s ministrations for any extended period of time. Not that he required a degree of perfection of service beyond Clara’s talents—far from it indeed. When engrossed in his studies or writing, he was very apt to forget about irrelevant matters such as meals and the proper clothing to suit the climate, and had to
be bullied
into following a healthy regime. Though Clara was capable of overriding his mild protests at being disturbed in his scholastic endeavors to harry him to the table, she was never so successful as his granddaughter in inducing him to make a good meal once there.

With Christmas fast approaching, the marchioness was making festive plans, taking Marianne’s continued presence in her home for granted. Something must be said soon about bringing her visit to a close in good time to reach the farm before inclement weather made traveling difficult. Surely they would understand that her grandfather should not be alone at this season.

Her unsatisfactory musings were brought to an abrupt cessation by a sharp command uttered from disturbingly near at hand:

“Hey there, rider! Stop! I require assistance.”

Surprise caused her to jerk the reins suddenly and Ebony snorted. Marianne patted him apologetically, peering about her in search of the owner of that peremptory voice.

“Over here! Why are you so slow? I cannot help this poor animal by myself...”

The impatient voice halted in mid-sentence as horse and rider became visible, picking their way between two enormous bushes. The owner of the voice rose slowly to his feet from a squatting position beside a whimpering, twisting creature, his impatient frown giving way to a somewhat glazed expression as he beheld the apparition before him. A magnificent black horse carrying an equally magnificent black-clad rider with creamy complexion and snowy stock providing the only contrast to the unrelieved black. A tide of dark color surged to the man’s cheeks as he realized from the lady’s slightly amused expression that he must have been staring like a mooncalf. He darted forward to assist her but she was too quick for him, having taken in the scene immediately and dismounted with an economical swiftness, to stride to the side of the writhing animal.

“Do not touch him, he’s crazed with pain!” the man warned.

“Nonsense, he knows we are here to help him,” the girl retorted, gentling the animal’s head briefly, a look of concern replacing her earlier amusement. “I’ll hold him while you pull the horrid things out. You poor darling, you’ve had a run in with a hedgehog, have you not, and are totally vanquished.” This last was addressed to the canine victim in soothing tones, as she suited her actions to her words by firmly gripping the wriggling creature.

The stranger hesitated briefly, still fearful that the dog might savage the girl, then as she directed a mildly questioning glance at him, dropped to his knees beside the animal and commenced removing the sharp spines from various parts of its anatomy. He worked in silence with steady, determined motions, while Marianne crooned soft-voiced encouragement to the whimpering pup and shifted her grip as it became necessary to aid the extraction of the spines. Except for a terse, “Keep him steady,” from the man when the pup renewed his efforts to escape, no conversation passed between the two during the delicate operation.

“Stay, Ebony, quiet!” the girl directed at the black horse as he edged closer to the large chestnut contentedly nibbling the sparse grass.

Although he kept his eyes on his task, the man was aware that the girl had bent several curiously intent glances at him during their collaboration. The panting dog grew quieter as the lengthy process slowly rid him of the torturing quills. At one point he turned his head and licked feebly at the girl’s black-gloved hand. The man forbore to comment on the suspicious drop of moisture that fell on the same glove a second later, methodically continuing his labors until he could say with a ring of triumph:

“There, that’s the lot!”

Marianne heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief and stretched her cramped muscles, thankfully accepting the aid of a strong arm in struggling to her feet.

“Do you think he’ll be all right now? He seems so weak, poor little thing.” She stood staring compassionately down at the now still body.

“He’ll do once we’ve seen to cleaning him up and having basilicum salve put on the worst patches. He’s young but I daresay he’s learned a valuable lesson. If you’ll allow me to assist you in mounting, Ma’am, I’ll hand him up to you until I’m mounted myself, then I’ll take him again.”

This exercise was accomplished with a nice precision, thanks to the pup’s weary acceptance of his fate, and now the two riders took stock of each other.

“Thank you very much for your timely assistance, Ma’am. I could not have managed him alone,” he said frankly. “I fear it has grown quite dark while we labored, so you must allow me to escort you to your home.” He executed a graceful half-bow despite his burden and continued, “Allow me to present myself. I am—”

“Lord Andrew Raymond, unless my eyes have deceived me, and I’ll wager we are heading in the same direction, my lord.”

“You know me?”

The young man had been gazing at his companion with frank admiration. Now his blue eyes widened with surprise for a moment, but he said with great firmness, “No, we have
not
met. Never tell me I could have forgotten such an event.”

Marianne laughed at the unsubtle compliment and assured him cheerfully, “No, of course we have not, but you are very like your brother, you, know.”

And indeed Lord Andrew Raymond was a younger edition of the marquess, with the same lithe athletic build and streaky gold hair. Like his brother he was the happy possessor of a classic nose and slightly cleft chin with sun-bronzed skin, but this Raymond had inherited his mother’s bright blue eyes, made even more spectacular by his coloring.

As she returned his assessing look with one of her own, he grinned engagingly, thereby dispelling the sense of twinship with his brother. Marianne wondered with an inexplicable pang if the marquess had looked just so boyishly open and friendly before that cynical smile had become part of him.

“You have the advantage of me, I apprehend, Ma’am, since I have the misfortune to look like my brother, while you, I feel certain, are an original, resembling no one else on earth.”

Marianne threw herself into the spirit from whence came this theatrical speech, arranging her features in a pathetic cast. “Alas, sir, it is but too sadly true. I am an orphan with neither sister nor brother to succor me. It quite sinks my spirits.” She bowed her head.

“An orphan and going in my direction? I have it!” Suddenly Lord Andrew snapped his fingers, causing the dog lying across his saddle to pick up his ears briefly before lapsing once more into lethargy. “You must be Perry’s daughter, the girl Justin inherited.”

“You make me sound like a pocket watch or some such thing,” she protested smilingly, “but your surmise is correct, Lord Andrew. I am Marianne Carstairs. Was Lady Lunswick expecting you today?”

“Mama? No. I was at Chestnut Hill, my estate, you know, checking on things for the winter when I took a sudden decision to come home early.”

“You have no baggage? You travel light, my lord.”