The Impossible Ward (20 page)

“Yes, dear child, do play and sing for us,” urged Lady Lunswick. “You are progressing beautifully with your music and we are all of us well-disposed to listen uncritically.”

The exquisite absurdity of this remark, at least with respect to Lady Mauraugh, almost overset Marianne’s gravity. She averted her eyes from the serene expression on her hostess’s lovely face, but in so doing, her gaze met that of the marquess, so filled with conspiratorial appreciation that it drew a spontaneous smile from her, despite her embarrassment and consternation at the situation the widow had so artfully contrived.

Justin smiled warmly at her. “I have been looking forward to the pleasure of hearing you sing,” he said with a quiet sincerity that caused her color to rise.

“Yes, Marianne, do not be a pudding heart, throw your heart over the fence.” This stout encouragement from Lord Andrew.

Feeling churlish and ungracious in the face of their friendly urgings, Marianne could not persist in her refusal. The marquess volunteered to fetch her music from upstairs. In the interval, Lord Andrew seated Marianne at the pianoforte and opened the instrument for her. He lit the branch of candles on it and, while so doing, spoke for her ears alone. “I say, Marianne, what did Richard mean earlier this evening when he mentioned something about paintings of Sophie’s?”

Marianne strove to prevent the triumphant elation she was experiencing at this inquiry from appearing in her voice. “I had promised to bring the paintings Sophia gave me for Christmas up to the nursery to compare with some pictures in one of Richard’s books. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I have no recollection of Sophie’s giving you anything of the sort. When Richard said that, I remembered that she was used to enjoy sketching in the fields and woods when we were children, but I had no idea she was still inclined in that direction. What are the subjects of the paintings? Or are they sketches?”

“No, they are exceedingly fine watercolors of woodland flowers. There are three of them, all rather small. I think my favorite is of violets nestled amidst their lovely greenery, tucked in and around the roots of an old. tree. It’s my belief that Sophia’s is a rare and delicate talent.” She looked at him steadily. “If you were unaware of the gift it is probably because Sophia gave them to me in private. You must know how she dislikes being the center of attention. I do not believe she could bear to have the paintings criticized or dismissed as slight female accomplishments.”

“Lord, why should you, or she, suspect I would do any such thing?” Lord Andrew was indignant. “I remember, when we were children, being so frustrated by my own efforts to sketch when the results were compared with Sophie’s. May I see them, the ones she gave you?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll take them up to the nursery in the afternoon, if you wish to accompany me. I would bring them to the dining room at midday, but Sophie is lunching with us tomorrow, as well as Claire and Aubrey, and I would not embarrass her by producing her work for general comment.”

He nodded in comprehension. “I know. Sophie has always been as shy as those forest creatures she delights in. My mother has mentioned bringing her to London with you when you make your come out, but I do not know if it will answer. Even if Justin and I stayed close to lend her support, it’s my guess she’d be miserable.”

Before Marianne could fully take in these startling words, Andrew had moved aside to make room for his brother who had returned with her music, the sight of which had the effect of instantly recalling her thoughts from Sophia’s problems to her own predicament. As her trustee assisted her in spreading the sheets on the stand, their hands brushed accidentally. He must have been aware of the trembling of her fingers because his turned and captured hers in a brief comforting clasp, while his eyes held hers with a warm smile in their amber depths.

“Do not be nervous. This isn’t a concert hall, you know.”

Although his whispered encouragement was audible only to Marianne, an involuntary glance disclosed that from her seat on the blue sofa, Lady Mauraugh had witnessed the momentary clasping of hands. If the icy stare she fixed on Marianne had had the power of its conviction, the latter would have been frozen on the spot, but strangely enough it was the shock of this cold enmity rather than the warm support of her trustee that enabled Marianne to overcome her momentary panic. The countess did not sing, and despite her own lack of training, Marianne knew her clear soprano was easily adequate to the demands of the simple ballad. Raising her chin a trifle and lowering her lashes to conceal her expression, she returned the other woman’s stare with a faint smile that brought forth a corresponding narrowing of green eyes. Feeling unaccountably braced by her own small show of spirit, Marianne focused her attention on the instrument.

As the marquess drifted toward a chair that faced the performer, Lady Mauraugh patted the seat beside her and called softly:

“Over here, Justin. That chair is too hard for comfort.”

He paused before collapsing his large frame onto the maligned chair and laughed in self-mockery. “Do you know, I must be getting old. I find myself becoming a creature of habit. This is my customary seat for enjoying music and I am loath to change.” He smiled gently at the widow, but remained in the cane-backed chair from which he had an unrestricted view of the performer’s face. Without turning his head he could also see Aurelie where she sat on the blue sofa, the picture of grace and elegance despite a slightly dissatisfied expression on her face at present.

His thoughtful gaze left the lovely redhead and dwelt in some perplexity on the dreamy-eyed brunette sitting at the pianoforte totally wrapped up in the music she was softly playing and singing. With the exception of her eyes which were the most beautiful he had ever beheld, feature by feature Marianne was quite eclipsed by Aurelie. Although her mouth had a lovely curve it was too large by modern standards, her nose was just a nose, and the arresting, high-cheeked, heart shaped face appeared uneasily exotic next to Aurelie’s classic oval. Both had perfect complexions, but again, the camelia and peach would excite less admiration than the fairer milk and rose. He found her abundant black hair quite to his taste, in fact the memory of that satin curtain released from its customary smooth style, rose up before his eyes with increasing regularity, but there was no denying either that Aurelie’s luxuriant red-gold tresses contributed greatly to her amazing beauty. The small hands playing competently over the keys, though obviously softer and whiter than when he first encountered them, would always appear more capable than elegant, and suffered greatly in comparison with the slender-fingered grace of the countess. But were decidedly more ... endearing perhaps?

Now how had that absurd notion risen to the top of his mind? He had been aware of the strength and capability of those hands from the first moment of their acquaintance when she had gripped those ridiculous milk pails almost defensively. And there was another ridiculous notion—that she needed defenses against himself. Had she not shown from the instant of their meeting a complete and unvarying indifference to his reaction to herself? And had she ever exhibited the slightest uneasiness when indulging in frequent actions guaranteed to arouse the ire of any guardian? Though posed in a rhetorical spirit, from his observation the answer must be a decided
no.

Then
why
was he sitting here in this damnably uncomfortable chair, clumsily repulsing overtures from the most beautiful and desirable woman of his wide acquaintance while indulging in dreams of arousing the romantic interest of a demonstrably indifferent female, possessing no more than tolerable good looks and no accomplishments to speak of, besides coming from a different background and owning an independent nature that totally unfitted her to conform to the typical pattern of behavior expected of a woman who marries into the aristocracy? Did he belong then to that class of men who were only interested in the thrill of the chase and who found no value in the object in possession? Had Marianne’s indifference piqued his vanity, while Aurelie’s current eagerness cooled his former ardor? His thoughts raced on to the lilting accompaniment of the old song sung just as delightfully as he had once predicted Marianne would sing.

In justice to himself he felt entitled to deny the accuracy of this most exaggerated stating of the case.

With regard to Aurelie, it was certainly true that he had been wildly in love with her once and that she had not changed a jot in the intervening five years. But two other things of surpassing importance were also true. Firstly, that he had never known, therefore never loved, the real Aurelie. She had seemed the physical embodiment of a young man’s dreams of the woman he might love, but in his state of bemusement he had credited her also with all the virtues and character a man, perhaps unconsciously, expects to find in the woman who will be his wife. Time had proved Aurelie too selfish and narcissistic to ever wish to conform to any but her own self-estimate. She used her beauty, accomplishments, and undoubted charm entirely to attain her own ends. While he was not prepared to condemn her for choosing to use her attributes thusly, since meeting Marianne he had slowly arrived at the inescapable conclusion that he himself had changed. A young man’s dream of the ideal woman was now too shallow and one-dimensional to satisfy him. He could no longer be content with discreet behavior and the appearance of loyalty; he demanded absolute fidelity. No longer would a decorative wife, complete with the admired worldly accomplishments, be the pinnacle of his desires. Now he wished for a woman willing and eager to share every aspect of his existence and remain at his side as his chosen life’s companion.

Naturally he was expected to marry and produce an heir, and he had not been unaware that his mother eagerly awaited this event, but until Marianne entered his life he had drifted along with no thought to becoming a tenant for life. In fact, after his experience with Aurelie, he had shied away from forming any but the most casual attachments with any eligible young lady. His title and wealth assured that all he had to do was cast the handkerchief and, practically without exception, any unmarried female of his acquaintance would accept his offer, regardless of her personal feelings about him. It was not particularly gratifying to know that were he doddering with age, of limited mentality, physically repulsive, or morally corrupt, the result would be the same. His worldly possessions would serve to annul almost all defects of person or character.

Right from their initial confrontation Marianne had struck him as different from the commonality of women but at the beginning of their acquaintance he had refused to admit the attraction of her honesty and genuineness, preferring to censure her for not conforming to the pattern of her contemporaries, though even then he had dimly recognized his reaction as being partially motivated by bruised vanity. His own behavior had begun to strike him as ambiguous in the extreme. On the one hand, he stood back and made invidious comparisons with other young women of her age, but when Claire Carstairs had attempted to set Marianne at a disadvantage his instincts were strongly protective of his impossible ward. She, meanwhile, remained cool and aloof in his company, never showing him a glimpse of the warm friendliness she displayed toward his mother. At this point he had made her business affairs an excuse to depart for London where, in the increased activity and social contact, he planned to erase the image of an annoyingly disturbing female. Though convinced of the soundness of this tactical maneuver, he found the results somewhat other he expected. For one thing, an image of a black-haired, quiet-faced girl popped into his mind and intruded when he was in company with other women. And now the comparisons were not always unfavorable. A certain blonde beauty, whose cool fairness had won her an admiring following, suddenly appeared pallid and uninteresting compared with a combination of rich coloring and jet black hair. Another young woman, known in his circle for her liveliness and wit, was unexpectedly revealed to have a shallow understanding and a mere facility with words. He had never questioned the propriety of young women remaining aloof from the more unpleasant facts of contemporary economic and political life, but now it struck him as the height of unwisdom to raise girls to be merely decorative. A vision of Marianne earnestly discussing the problems of the factory workers with Mr. Huntingdon rose up before his mind’s eye, rendering the usual run of debutantes sadly deficient in understanding, no matter how accomplished.

He had come home at last, half eager, half reluctant to pursue his acquaintance with his disturbing ward to find—here his gaze which had been dwelling inward though politely fixed on the performer, sharpened and focused anew on her face. He had entered his house and the first sight to greet him had been a vision of loveliness, superbly gowned in flowing blue velvet. The awkwardness of manner was gone, the gypsy tan had faded to this creamy satin, her former coldness replaced by a glowing warmth and vitality. And he had stood spellbound with the sudden knowledge that he had passed the point of denying the loss of his heart. And for an enchanted moment she had gazed back at him with a welcome that shut out the rest of the world and enclosed the two of them in a private haven. He shifted his feet and his eyes sought the figure on the blue sofa listening to the music with an air of polite boredom. The presence of Martin Archer had caused the enchantment to disperse slightly, but it had taken the shock of finding Aurelie in his mother’s saloon to shatter the mood completely. Since then his duties as host had prevented him from pursuing a single-minded courtship, but until the unfortunate scene with Aurelie in the conservatory he had been reasonably content with his progress in gaining friendship with Marianne at least. Occasional quiet interludes spent in private conversation with her had satisfied him while the house was full of guests. Until this afternoon.