The Rocking Horse: A Regency Novella (6 page)

"She is known for that. I often wonder if her actions are deliberate or blindly inconsiderate, as we've always assumed."

"In the interest of not burning my boats a la Caesar, I'd best keep my visit to you brief and go downstairs to meet her."

Lady Mary chuckled. "'Tis a wise woman you are, Miss Maybrey."

"Sometimes I wonder," Jocelyn said as she rose from the bed and said goodbye.

She could not seem to shake the image of Tarkington from her mind. Why should his sister bear such an unflattering impression of him? Jocelyn saw little in his behavior that she would deem symptoms of melancholy. Quite the contrary! There was a reserve to the gentleman, which was to be expected around a stranger and one who was his younger sister's friend. He probably did not consider Lady Mary an adult. That was obvious by his behavior when she was discovered ill! Was it any wonder he should treat his sister's friend in a similar manner? But he was not always reserved—she found herself often thinking of the time spent in the topiary garden with Tarkington and Lady Anne.

But was it wise or politic to spend one's time considering the marques? Such tenacious thoughts as she seemed to possess worried her. She did not understand the interest the marques roused in her, or the way a curious fluttering invaded her stomach when he was nearby, causing her to talk and act like a veritable ninny hammer! She allowed she was touched by his love and concern for his daughter, but that would not solely answer for the feelings she had long before she met Lady Anne or came to know of Tarkington's devotion to his daughter.

It was delightful to watch him and the child together. He was truly a man who deserved a large family. A houseful of children! Well, the estate certainly had the space and resources. It would be tragic should he not remarry and father additional children. Perhaps that was disloyal to Charles, but quite frankly Jocelyn could not imagine Charles as a marques. He had not the essence—whatever that was—of a marques. The fine spirit, the oneness with one's land and people. Tarkington possessed those qualities, but Charles was too much the city man. Bayneville needed and deserved attention, more attention than a political and social gentleman like Charles was bound to give.

But didn't Lady Mary claim that Tarkington once possessed the same attributes that Charles had? And didn't she lament their disappearance?

Jocelyn was confused. Through it all, nonetheless, one thing was becoming manifest for her. She must decide what life she preferred, for she'd just discovered there were alternatives to her parents' and Charles' life!

That idea shook her. It frightened her. It made her realize she knew nothing of life. It made her realize she had choices in life. And it made her determined to learn.

"Miss Maybrey, you look in a brown study. Is something the matter?"

Jocelyn looked up, her frown easing into a weary smile. "I beg your pardon, my lord. I was away a bit with my thoughts. Please forgive me."

Tarkington walked toward her. "There is nothing to forgive, Miss Maybrey. We are all at times given to private thought. No, I was merely concerned lest you have some fear or problem."

Jocelyn laughed. "What young woman does not? Or think she does not?"

"Touché, but I would have thought that a gentleman's line regarding a woman."

"And why is that, my lord? Do you not think a woman capable of self-examination?"

Tarkington laughed. "Acquit me, Miss Maybrey. Mine was more a cynicism against gentlemen. But there is much to say of the way a woman bursts into flames at the least crossing." They began to walk together down the hall toward the main stairs.

"I shall cry craven at that, my lord, for you have me."

"A man could only wish, Miss Maybrey."

"I beg your pardon, my lord?"

"Nothing. . . . More of my cynicism. A blight upon my being, or so Mary tells me."

Jocelyn shook her head. "Nonsense! What can be seen as wrong in plain speech?"

"Much. You have a great deal to learn, my dear, for all your grave nature."

"Grave?" Jocelyn didn't like being considered grave.

Tarkington extended his hand forward. "We had best join the others before Aunt Bayne takes it upon herself to look for us," he said, avoiding her question.

"Yes. But a moment, my lord. I have a boon to ask of you. I know you are set upon making the rocking horse entirely by yourself, but I was wondering if you would allow me to assist. I have some measure of talent with a paintbrush, I am told, and I have painted many a piece of furniture with dioramas of historical events that Father wished to preserve. I should like to make that my gift to you and Lady Anne for this Christmas visit. Despite Lady Mary's illness, I am enjoying myself."

"In what way?"

"The peace of the estate. The observation of life. The relaxation of appearance. Oh, I don't know that I can completely explain it to you, my lord. It is merely part of the warm and quite strange feelings I have experienced since being here. This morning I sat in a chair by a window in my room and looked out across your estate. I looked at the land rolling away toward the river, I watched the people coming and going on estate business, I listened to the silence." She sighed, then self-consciously laughed. "I have not had experience with the country, my lord. Perhaps it is merely the novelty."

Tarkington looked at her thoughtfully, then a slow smile pulled on his lips and crept into his gray eyes, burnishing them to a silver gleam. "Perhaps indeed, Miss Maybrey. Perhaps indeed. And asked in that pretty fashion, how might a man refuse? Truly I should relish your talent, should you be serious. Time is short. But come," he said, taking her arm as they descended the stairs. "To your next novelty . . . Mrs. Bayne!"

"Ah, here they are. You see, Clarice? I told you they would be here momentarily," Lady Tarkington said brightly. Her expression directed toward Tarkington and Jocelyn was the antithesis of good humor, however. Frustration and anger sparked like steel on flint in her blue eyes. But as quickly as it appeared it disappeared, so that the mien she turned toward her sister-in-law remained determinedly cheery.

Clarice Bayne nodded ponderously. "Tarkington, I was just telling your mother that I do not believe in gossip and I do not care to receive it. In your case, however, I have of late seen that it is more than gossip. It is truth."

"And what is that truth?" Tarkington asked, strolling over to the burl-veneered credenza to pour himself a pre-prandial drink. He looked inquiringly at Jocelyn. She shook her head.

Mrs. Bayne pulled her wool shawl closer about her gaunt form, then puffed out her narrow chest like a bantam hen. "It is my sorrowing duty to point out to you your mental deterioration. Of late you've lacked the proper understanding of your duties as head of the family."

"Clarice!" gasped Lady Tarkington.

"I'm sorry, Martha, but it must be said—and I hold you responsible for allowing this situation to persist. Tarkington is not the man he was prior to Diana's death."

"And that is to the bad?" Tarkington asked quietly, not looking at her, his attention ostensibly centered on the glass he rolled between his hands.

Lady Maybrey reached out from the small sofa where she sat to grab Jocelyn's hand and pull her down to sit beside her. Jocelyn looked quizzically at her mother. Lady Maybrey shook her head, warning Jocelyn against curiosity.

"It is lamentable, particularly as you have a young daughter to coach in the ways of society and her proper place in it. This morning I saw you running about the garden with her like a peasant with his child." She shook her head sadly. "Most distressing. You have your station to consider."

Jocelyn could scarcely countenance what she was hearing, or that the dowager countess and her mother should remain so silent!

"And my station would suffer from giving my child some small moments of laughter?" Tarkington asked quietly.

"Yes. Such things are cumulative. You must realize that, Tarkington. When your people see you without your dignity, they lose respect for you and fail to do their proper duty."

Tarkington laughed. "If that were all it took to reduce their opinion, then I'd say their opinions are well past redemption, for I've done more than play in the garden, Aunt Clarice."

"This levity of yours is unseemly," she said severely. "You are a widower, after all."

"And I should still be in mourning? If that is your contention, Aunt Clarice, then I will have you know, and be done with it, that I disagree. It is nearly Christmas! This is not the season for morose introspection. But what of you?"

"Me?" Mrs. Bayne looked up at him, and Jocelyn thought she saw a fleeting expression of hate cross her pinched features.

"Yes. Is it proper, since that is what you think I should be, that you should ignore the guest who entered the room with me, not encouraging an introduction?"

She laughed. " 'Twas not necessary. I know who she is. She is the woman my Charles is to marry," she said with great complacency.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bayne, but nothing has been voiced to that effect," Jocelyn burst out, thoroughly annoyed with this woman. Lady Maybrey frowned at her.

Mrs. Bayne smiled, her narrow face now condescending in its expression. She nodded toward Lady Maybrey. "A most proper observation, Lady Maybrey. You are to be commended for your daughter's delicacy of spirit. It is regrettable that Charles did not accompany you. My son is a man of great responsibility, else I am certain he would not have let you come here alone. He understands responsibility."

Tarkington slammed his glass down on the credenza. "Does he, Aunt Clarice? Does he know what responsibilities a father owes his daughter? Does he know what a landlord owes his tenants? Does he know what it is to have a thousand souls dependent upon him? Does he know what it is to be so consumed with politics that family and estate are forgotten? Does he knew what it is to miss seeing his daughter take her first steps, say her first words? Does he know what it is to arrive at his wife's deathbed only in time to say goodbye? Does he know what it is to love?"

"You are overwrought, Tarkington," Mrs. Bayne snapped, all semblance of kind patience flying away. "I suggest a laudanum dose. You are exhibiting proof that you are no longer capable of running this family."

"Ah, I see how it is. You think as Prinny has become regent for his father, so Charles could for me? Perhaps you had rather I be assigned to Bedlam?"

"There is no need for an emotional display, Tarkington. That will be quite enough," Mrs. Bayne declared. "Really, Martha, you are entirely too weak. To allow him to digress to this extent! Have you called in Dr. Linden to consult? Well, I hold myself accountable as well. I should have insisted on removing Lady Anne from his influence as soon as I detected this change in him."

"No!" Jocelyn cried out. She surged to her feet, her body quivering with anger.

Four pairs of eyes swiveled in Jocelyn's direction.

"I have spent time with Lady Anne and Lord Tarkington. Theirs is a loving relationship! That we all should be so fortunate. How much time have you spent with either of them, Mrs. Bayne? You say you do not countenance gossip, yet I perceive it is the gossip you are creating that guides you!"

"Jocelyn!" protested Lady Maybrey.

"No, Mother, I shall not be hushed. I understand from all I have seen and heard here that the marques is not the same man he was prior to his wife's death. He has changed. But not, to my observation, for the worst!"

"Young woman, how dare you speak to me in that manner! I shall have to talk to Charles!"

"Do that!" Jocelyn countered, burning with anger.

"Er, my lord, dinner is served," intoned the butler from the doorway.

"I'm sorry. I find I cannot join you for dinner. I seem to have developed a splitting headache!" Jocelyn said, twirling around to run from the room.

"Miss Maybrey!" the marques called after her.

She ignored him, fleeing up the stairs and down the long carpeted corridor to her room. She slammed the door closed behind her and collapsed into the chair before the fire, feeling suddenly and inexplicably chilled.

The next morning oppression lay heavily on Jocelyn. Listlessly she allowed Miss Barnes to dress her, voicing no protest when the woman added more jewels to her toilet than was seemly for day attire. She stood like a doll, her mind whirling from her previous evening's idiocy. She wished she could spirit herself back to London, back to the world she understood, to the formal rules, the little plays, the shallowness of communication. It was not a world that required—or even liked—sincerity and love. It was a safer world. She could see that now. With leaden feet she left her room and went downstairs for breakfast. And that was nearly beyond her ability. It was only the knowledge that her mother and Lady Tarkington would still be abed and that Mrs. Bayne would be back at her home that gave her the strength to venture down to possibly face the marques and her own folly.

To her relief, the breakfast room was empty, one setting already removed with only a trace of a drop of coffee on the white tablecloth to show anyone had sat there. The realization that the marques had already eaten and left felt like a weight leaving her shoulders. With a lighter heart she filled her plate, for this morning she was sharp-set.