The Impossible Ward (13 page)

“Happy?” Marianne’s silky brows mounted dramatically, but Lord Andrew merely laughed.

“Wait and see,” he promised as he tossed the girl up into the saddle, then mounted his big chestnut, nodding dismissal to the patient groom.

As they headed down the carriage drive he ran an experienced eye over the black. “He’s a prime young ’un all right, and built for speed if I’m any judge.”

Marianne proudly patted the silky mane of her favorite, thrilled as a fond mama at praise for her child. “Ebony is an absolute darling and the smoothest ride imaginable, aren’t you, old boy!” The neat black pricked up his ears and tossed his head.

Andrew chuckled. “And likes compliments obviously. Did you bring him with you?”

“Oh no, your ... that is, Lord Lunswick selected him for me before he left for London.”

“There’s no one with a better eye for a horse than Justin. How do you two get on together?”

There was the tiniest pause, then Marianne said casually, “I told you, marvelously. Ebony is a perfect mount.”

Lord Andrew trained a bright blue stare on the composed face of his companion. “Doing it up much too brown, my girl,” he said mildly. “You know I meant Justin.”

“Well, if you will have the unvarnished truth, we disagree on almost every subject.”

The touch of defiance in this bald pronouncement was not lost on Lord Andrew. His lazy glance sharpened for a moment. “Now I find that most interesting,” he drawled, then leaving the subject despite its stated fascination, challenged: “Let’s shake the fidgets out of the horses with a gallop, shall we?”

The last view anyone watching from the Hall would have had was of two riders going neck or nothing over the first low hill past the gate house.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Marianne immensely enjoyed her initial ride with Lord Andrew Raymond, and all the others that succeeded it. As his fond mama had predicted, life was never boring when her younger son was in residence. Shopping excursions to Bath took on additional pleasure, Marianne discovered, when the ladies had the escort of an obliging young man who, though he might leave them to their fittings at Madame Louise’s, was always willing to meet them at the Pump Room and later to arrange a luncheon at one or another of the town’s hotels, often with a small party of his mother’s friends. On all visits to the Pump Room he thoughtfully insisted on procuring a glass of the famous waters for both ladies, despite his mother’s repeated protests that since nothing ailed her she had no need to take the nasty stuff. Her careful son would solemnly recite the maxim about an ounce of prevention, never taking his eyes from his mother’s expressive countenance until she had swallowed a token amount, not without many a grimace of distaste. Marianne, who had recognized early in their acquaintance his lordship’s propensity for unmerciful teasing, managed to drink her portion with no change of expression by judiciously holding her breath and concentrating fiercely on something else while swallowing the potion. She never omitted to thank his lordship politely and took pains to conceal her dislike of the drink, thus denying him his little triumph. That he suspected her duplicity was attested to by his persistence in supplying her with the health-giving liquid and the inevitable bland but close scrutiny while she drank it. However she always met this look with an innocent one of her own, savoring his disappointment. The marchioness was too intent on her own reaction to note the byplay in the beginning, but as the two women walked down Stall Street one day she confided her dread of the coming ordeal.

“I’d almost rather go directly home than be compelled to drink another dose of that detestable water,” she declared rebelliously. “How
can
you actually like it?”

At this Marianne was betrayed into a gurgle of laughter, though she managed to control her features almost immediately and murmur something to the effect that she did not find the water intolerable. However the giggle had been sufficient to rouse Lady Lunswick’s suspicions. She stopped dead outside the Pump Room and confronted her young guest, reading the mischief in the blue eyes above the prim mouth.

“Why, you hate the nasty stuff as much as I do!”

“Yes, but do not, I implore you, inform Andrew of the fact.”

“But why? Oh, you naughty girl! It is too bad of you to make a May game of my poor Andrew!” These righteous words were wholly belied by an expression of unholy glee on her charming face.

“Rather ‘poor Lady Lunswick’ and ‘poor Marianne,’ ” retorted her unrepentant companion. “Andrew is a sad tease.”

His indulgent mama was forced to admit the justice of this accusation. “Yes, I fear Andrew has always had too much levity in his make-up. Even as a youngster he could never resist a prank, no matter what it might cost him later in punishment. But what is to be done?”

“I do not know, Ma’am, except it occurs to me that we have yet to see Andrew drink the waters.”

“But that is because Andrew is always here first.”

“Not today, though. Look who is approaching,” said Marianne as Andrew came toward them. “Well met, Andrew. Since we are here before you today, your mother and I shall wait upon your comfort for a change.” She smiled enchantingly up at him.

“I could not think of it, Marianne,” he replied smoothly. “It is for a gentleman to perform that office for his companions. There is always such a crush around the fountain.”

“Nonsense, Andrew,” inserted his mother, grasping his arm and turning him firmly away. “It is our turn today. Marianne shall procure you a glass. We insist, do we not, Marianne?”

“Yes indeed, Ma’am. It is our pleasure, Andrew.”

And Lord Andrew had given in gracefully, heroically swallowing the water under the solicitous eyes of his doting relatives, for Marianne had become one of the family by this time. The marchioness had treated her as a daughter right from the beginning, of course. Lord Andrew had shown a marked inclination to flirt lightheartedly with his mother’s guest initially, but had gained no like response from one of her direct nature. Indeed, after a series of extravagant compliments on their first ride together, she had tartly ordered him to stop throwing the hatchet at her, an unromantic remark guaranteed to quench the ardor of any gentleman not absolutely sunk in love. After an instant of disbelief, Lord Andrew had shouted with laughter and thereafter had paid her the sincere compliment of according to her conversation and opinions the same attention and respect freely given to his male acquaintances. They spent many companionable hours outdoors, riding and inspecting the estate, and contrived to enjoy each other’s company in the saloon in the long winter evenings. While Lady Lunswick industriously worked on the complicated embroidery patterns for which she was justly renowned amongst her friends, immense imaginary fortunes were won and lost as her son and houseguest engaged each other at piquet. When the vicar and his family spent the evening at the Hall, Lord Andrew would make a fourth at whist so Mr. Huntingdon might indulge his fondness for the game. On these occasions Sophia and Marianne were left to amuse themselves, neither girl being deemed a worthy enough opponent to earn a seat at the whist table. This they were quite content to do. In Marianne’s opinion, the only liability in having Lord Andrew at home was that she now saw less of Sophia than formerly. Andrew was forever suggesting an outing and though he was perfectly willing to include Sophia at any time, the vicar’s shy daughter was not the enthusiastic rider Marianne was, much preferring to find her enjoyment in walking. In fact Marianne had great difficulty in persuading her friend to join any of their activities. Though Sophia and Lord Andrew had beer? acquainted „ since childhood and Lord Andrew treated her with the casual affection a young man might accord a female cousin, in his presence Sophia seemed to lose all her ease of manner. Marianne had realized at their first meeting that the vicar’s daughter was shy and reluctant to push herself forward, but this was quickly overcome as their friendship developed, and Sophia, with her fine mind, proved a good conversationalist. With Lady Lunswick too she was always quite at ease; therefore, her stiffness when in Lord Andrew’s company had Marianne in a puzzle. She mentioned the matter to Lady Lunswick who confessed herself at a loss.

“Andrew and Sophie were the best of friends until he came down from Oxford a couple of years ago. There are only three years between them, you know, and Sophie was always Andrew’s slave in the days when he was home from Eton. Harry and Justin were more than six years older than Andrew and would not often tolerate his company; then of course they joined the army and were not often home at the same time as Andrew. He appears not to have noticed how silent Sophie has become; he seems pleased to see her as always, but I cannot help wondering if he has done something to wound or offend her in his careless fashion, though there isn’t an ounce of harm in his pranks. Boys never seem to realize that the females they played with as children
do
grow up, and sometimes develop exquisite sensibilities in the process, though to do her justice, Sophie has always been such a level-headed girl. Lately she actually seems more comfortable in Justin’s company than Andrew’s, and she was always used to go in awe of the lordly twins.”

“I could understand it if Andrew teased her unmercifully, but he never does tease Sophie—that is, hardly ever,” Marianne amended laughingly. “Andrew’s manner is generally bantering, but he is sometimes gentle with Sophia and always looks after her comfort.”

“Well, unless you feel able to question Sophia indirectly, I fear there is not much to be done at present,” confessed the marchioness. She paused with her needle halfway into her embroidery and looked questioningly at the young girl, then resumed her stitching. Marianne’s hands, which had earlier stilled at her task of sorting the silks for Lady Lunswick, slowly resumed a rather aimless movement amongst the colorful array. The ladies were cozily ensconced in the marchioness’ small morning room since Lord Andrew was away visiting friends in the district. Tonight her eyes were unaware of the charm of this favorite apartment, as they roamed unseeingly over the crimson velvet chairs with their oval backs and carved frames—small chairs to insure the comfort of a tiny lady while she plied her needle or cut out intricate paper patterns from
The Ladies’ Amusement Book
that she carefully colored and later applied to various small objects to achieve a look of painted or inlaid decoration. There was a fine large console table of satinwood at which she generally worked at this craft, and candle stands strategically placed to light her efforts. The white marble fireplace with its carved floral swags glowed in the light of a brisk fire and many candles. Two large wing chairs upholstered in red, blue, and gray stripes were invitingly placed near the fire to tempt her sons. The fine needlepoint fire screen had been worked by Lady Lunswick. The red, blue, and gray was repeated in the patterned carpet and the same soft gray was used for curtaining the windows. Marianne thoroughly approved of this restful color on the walls, making as it did a neutral background for a few landscapes and family portraits. The ceiling and delicate plaster trim were a sparkling white. A delightful room in which to pursue one’s artistic interests, and Marianne enjoyed keeping her hostess company, though she had steadfastly refused to pursue any creative endeavors of her own. At the moment, however, her mind was far removed from the restful room. An idea had taken possession of it with the force of a thunder clap, an idea both startling and unrestful. The silence lengthened as Marianne stared into the low flames until it penetrated the marchioness’ concentration on her fancy work.

“Are you concerned that any probing would call for great delicacy?” she inquired. “One would not wish to pry into Sophie’s private thoughts.”

“No, nor would I wish to be guilty of causing her embarrassment,” Marianne answered slowly, “especially if there is any basis for an odd notion that just came to me.” She lapsed abruptly into silence, seemingly unaware of the older woman’s questioning look.

After a pregnant moment Lady Lunswick could bear the suspense no longer: “An odd notion?” she prompted.

“Yes,” Marianne began hesitantly, but any explanation she might have made was interrupted by the ecstatic barking of the formerly recumbent shape nestled near Lady Lunswick’s chair. Nuisance, who had been napping peacefully, got to his feet with his customary awkwardness and dashed toward the open doorway.

“Look at that idiotish animal,” Lady Lunswick laughed. “He must hear Andrew.”

“Not so very idiotish, Ma’am. After all it is a wise pup that knows his own savior,” Marianne paraphrased lightly.

“That is true enough. He must know it is thanks to Andrew that he spends most of his time comfortably established indoors despite the prejudices of nearly the entire household.”

“Oh, but you must concede that his manners have improved out of all recognition this past week or so.”

Lady Lunswick was not about to concede any such thing, but just then her son entered the room with Nuisance madly circling his tall figure and thereby endangering his benefactor’s balance.

“Good evening, ladies. What a sad thing it is indeed that a man’s most fervent welcome must come from a mere four-legged creature.”

Marianne chuckled softly. “I would be most happy to oblige, Andrew, except that panting is so undignified and so wearying.”

He grinned appreciatively. “Well, I shall simply have to take the thought for the deed.” He turned to his mother who was smiling at their nonsense. “I was at the receiving office in Bath today, love, and picked up this letter for you.”

Lady Lunswick extended her hand for the missive. “It is from my Aunt Aurelie,” he added, and leaned forward to place the large blue envelope in the small hand that had stilled its movement.

“Aurelie?” echoed his mother blankly. “I cannot conceive what she could have to say to me.”

“There is only one way to discover that,” replied her son mildly.

“Oh ... yes, to be sure.”

Marianne, idly watching this tableau, wondered at the slight reluctance she sensed in her hostess with regard to the obviously unexpected letter. Andrew began a conversation about the friends he had been visiting, but the girl gained the impression that his attention, like her own, was divided, some part of it intent on the silent woman in the red chair who was now reading her letter with frowning concentration. She might have found the handwriting difficult, for it seemed an inordinately long time before she lowered her hands, still clutching the tinted sheets to her lap, and raised her eyes to the fireplace.

“Well, Mama, and what has my Aunt Aurelie to say?” Andrew’s voice was curiously expressionless.

“She ... she wants to come here for Christmas with Richard and...”

“Here! Does Justin know?”

“I ... I do not know, but I should say it is unlikely. She writes from Northumberland. What is the date, Andrew?”

“Today? It is the nineteenth. Why?”

“Well, it will take at least three days for a letter to reach Castle Mauraugh. Aurelie writes that she will arrive on the twenty-second. She will already have left.” Catching Marianne’s curious eye, the marchioness closed her lips firmly against whatever else she had planned to say. When next she spoke, the sense of urgency had gone from her tones leaving them somewhat flat.

“You must know that Aurelie is my sister-in-law, the widow of my only brother who died last year. Now that she has put off her blacks she plans to reside in London, but the town house is undergoing extensive renovations at the moment. She writes that she feels Richard, my nephew, would benefit from contact with his relatives. He has been too much alone since his father’s death.” Here Lord Andrew interrupted to say, “Aurelie has two married sisters and a mother, has she not? I should think it more likely that she would go to them while the house is torn up.”

“She feels Richard has had too much of petticoat rule just lately and should be exposed to his male relatives for a while.”

“How old is Richard?” Marianne scarcely cared but felt constrained to make some innocuous comment to ease the atmosphere.

“His fourth birthday was in October, I believe.”

“Only four? I ... I apprehend his father was your younger brother, Ma’am?”

“William was seven and forty when he died.” The brevity of Lady Lunswick’s answers argued against further questions and Marianne cudgeled her unresponsive brain for something noncommittal to say. The situation was saved by the arrival of the tea tray, but although Lady Lunswick’s inherent social sense enabled her to guide the conversation into a pleasant discussion of some new music, nobly abetted by Lord Andrew, and though the prospective visit of her sister-in-law was not mentioned again, Marianne had no doubts that this was the topic uppermost in the mind of each. The next few days saw preparations for
guests set
in motion throughout the great house. Rooms were prepared for the countess of Mauraugh and the old nurseries aired and cleaned to receive her small son and his nurse. Curtains and draperies were taken down and cleaned, rugs were beaten, silver and brass polished to spotless brilliance. The kitchens were a hive of activity at this season in any case, as Lady Lunswick presided over the organization of gifts to the tenants and numerous dependents. Marianne saw much less of her hostess during this period. She and Andrew undertook the pleasant task of gathering holly and seasonal greens to decorate the various reception rooms and the Great Hall. The weather held cold and clear throughout the preparations, and an air of anticipation hung over the great house. If her hostess appeared a trifle preoccupied when they met at meals, Marianne laid the cause to her busy schedule and did her best to relieve Lady Lunswick of as many details as possible.