Marjorie Farrell (4 page)

“I think I can withstand her tongue. And as for my uncle, I think only a few are aware of our relationship. My family, as you know, has never taken part in the Season. When my mother married my father and moved to Yorkshire, she was soon forgotten.”

“Yet I remember her quite well,” said the earl. “A very unusual and determined young woman she was.”

“Still is, sir, tho’ not so young.”

“Your father was the son of a baronet, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, the younger son who turned his back on a career in the Church because he was more drawn to scholarly pursuits.”

“Was he ever ordained? I don’t remember the whole story.”

“No. He became so interested in what are considered pagan beliefs that he began to question his faith.”

“There are many clerics in the church who have no faith to question in the first place,” commented the earl dryly.

“Yes, but my father decided he was better suited for the life of an honest, semi-agnostic scholar than a hypocritical clergyman.”

“And how did your mother’s family take her marriage? They eloped, as I recall.”

“About as you may have expected, except for her brother. But she was a determined woman. Thank God,” said Gareth, with a quick grin, “or else we all would have starved. The Yorkshire property my father inherited would hardly have supported us were she not a genius at raising sheep!”

“You see, that is exactly what Arden needs,” laughed the earl. “A strong-minded, out-of-the-ordinary mother-in-law. And husband. For I think you are very like your mother.”

“Not physically. My sister Kate and I resemble my father, who looks, but isn’t, down to earth. And Lynette, who is a true scholar, is tall and fair like my mother. Or perhaps like my mother used to look.”

“Yes, I remember that light blond hair and blue eyes. She looked rather ethereal.”

“A less ethereal woman I cannot imagine,” said Gareth with a smile.

“Well, my boy, enough reminiscence,” said the earl, standing up and extending his hand. “We have an agreement, then? I will obtain invitations for you and you will dance with my daughter and take her to supper and attend the theater with us, and by the end of a week or so, will offer for her.”

“I will agree to all except the last,” said Gareth.

“I am convinced I won’t be disappointed. Unless you continue to appear in the clothes you have on. You are intending to do some shopping?” teased the earl. “Do you need any money?”

“Absolutely not. I had a great deal of back pay coming to me, so I am well set up.”

“Then we will see you for supper tomorrow night.”

Gareth walked out into an ideal English spring day: sunny, with clouds scudding across the sky and a light but steady breeze. To one used to the aridity of Spain and Portugal, the lush green present even in the city was invigorating and Gareth decided to walk to his aunt and uncle’s.

He was admitted by their old butler and sent directly upstairs.

“Her ladyship will be that glad to see you,” said the housekeeper who passed him on the stairs carrying a tray of medicine glasses and teacups down to the kitchen. “She has hardly moved out of his sight these past few weeks, Captain.”

Gareth knocked lightly on the door and his aunt opened it. From the expression on her face, he knew she had not expected to see him so soon, and the tears in her eyes and quaver in her voice made him glad that he had come immediately.

“My dearest boy. I am so happy to see you. Your uncle…”

“How is he, Aunt Kate?”

“He is sinking, Gareth. Only conscious for minutes at a time, but seems to be in no pain, thank God.” She led him over to the big bed, where his formerly robust uncle hardly made an impression under the sheets.

“It is hard to believe that someone as vital as Uncle Harry could look so small.”

His aunt reached out and grasped Gareth’s hand. “I know. It is a shock to someone who has not seen it happen over the last year. Why don’t you sit down and speak to him? He has been sleeping for a few hours and may come back to us if he hears your voice.”

Gareth sat down next to the bed and took his uncle’s hand, which looked and felt as though it belonged on a wax effigy. He had seen death far too often in battle to want to rail against this peaceful end of a long and active life, but as he gazed down at the marquess’s sunken face, he started remembering how important a role his uncle had played in his life. Oh, it was not that they had seen each other that often. But they had visited back and forth over the years, and when Gareth was at university, he had spent a few vacations in London.

Gareth remembered one of his uncle’s visits to Richmond House vividly. It was when he had been in his late teens, and the contrast between his then robust and active uncle and scholar father had added more fuel to the already burning resentment he felt about his family. One morning, as they cooled their horses after a bruising ride, Gareth poured out his adolescent heart. “Why must they be so…eccentric?” he almost cried. “Why can’t my father enjoy a ride like this? A real man would be ashamed to have his wife managing the estate while he locks himself away reading about horned gods and faery rings! And my mother…she is just as bad. I know she is your sister, but what real lady would be happy discussing the bloodlines of sheep? I almost think I hate them,” he added passionately.

“Except you love them too much?” replied his uncle.

“Yes,” muttered Gareth, embarrassed by his outburst.

“It is very natural you should feel this way, Gareth,” said his uncle, continuing to walk his horse. He wanted to stop and face his nephew, but knew continuing to move would make Gareth feel more comfortable.

“I know this sounds like a truism, and you will likely want to draw my cork for it.” Gareth looked over and smiled at his uncle’s use of cant. “But as you get older, you will appreciate them more for what they are, and let your sense of humor take care of the rest. And one thing I am sure of is that you must have a sense of humor by now to have survived this long. I know mine developed after my first years with your Aunt Katherine. It is not always easy to be married to the ‘Methodist Marchioness’!”

Gareth grinned. His aunt had heard Wesley speak years ago, and had been deeply impressed, to the horror of her family, who considered religion something you took out only on Sundays, like your best bonnet.

“How do you stand the gossip? And Aunt Kate’s activities?”

“I love her,” answered the marquess. “And although at first it is hard to separate yourself from the foibles of someone you love, it is those very individual qualities that drew you to the person in the first place.”

“But you chose Aunt Kate. I have had no choice,” complained Gareth.

“Gareth,” said the marquess, finally facing his nephew, “your mother loves your father just as he is. And she loves breeding sheep. Neither of them would be happy in society. They have too much energy and intelligence, and needed a place to exercise those qualities. Your mother doesn’t resent your father’s devotion to scholarship. You do.”

“Aye. I know I do.”

“And yet your father will leave work behind that will benefit generations to come.”

“It is hard to see how,” protested Gareth.

“Oh, I am no more bookish than you are, young man, but even I can see that understanding the ancient ways of this land will only help us understand ourselves.”

“I just wish he were more like you,” said Gareth, almost under his breath.

“Gareth, fathers and sons rarely appreciate one another, especially at your age. I am flattered you would have your father more like me,” said the marquess, throwing an arm over Gareth’s shoulder, “but were we truly father and son, I suspect you would find something to criticize in me. And I you.”

“My father rarely criticizes,” said Gareth. “I think because he rarely notices me. Lynette is the scholar in the family and he and she live in their own private world.”

“That may be so, but nevertheless he asked me to make this visit for the purpose of sounding you out on what you want to do with your life.”

Gareth looked up, truly surprised.

“Oh, yes, he notices you, my boy. He knows that right now you need a wider world than Yorkshire. And although you are no scholar, he thinks you would not be unhappy at university?”

“He is right. I do enjoy learning, though not to the extent that he and Lynette do,” Gareth grudgingly admitted. “But we can hardly afford to think about it.”

“And after university?”

“A commission. Something else to only dream about.”

“I have made you my heir, Gareth,” announced the marquess.

Gareth stopped dead in his tracks. “You what?”

“Yes. Your aunt and I will never have children if we have not by now. And I have no brothers or other nephews. Surely you have at least wondered about this?”

“I think I just assumed that one day you and Aunt Kate would produce a child. It still might happen.”

“It is possible, but the doctors assure us highly unlikely. No, you will inherit the title and Thorne, and , therefore, I will help you through university and with a commission, if that is what you wish.”

“I don’t know what to say, sir. Thank you hardly seems sufficient.”

“No need to say more than thank you. You are like a son to me, Gareth. We are spoiled, though,” he laughed, “for there is enough distance between us that we appreciate each other. For all my faults, you will always be less critical of me than of your father!”

* * * *

Gareth was called back to the present by a slight pressure on his fingers, and his aunt gently announced to her husband that “Gareth has come, dearest.”

His uncle’s eyes fluttered open and he smiled very slightly, as though even a change in expression tired him. Gareth had to lean down to catch his “It is good to see you one last time, my boy.” Gareth protested that he would be around for a while, but his uncle just squeezed his hand gently again. “No deathbed lies here, Gareth. Kate and I can’t see wasting time or energy on denial. I have so little waking time as it is. Are you ready to become a marquess, Gareth?” his uncle asked with a bit more of a smile. “I cannot say that a title makes dying any easier, but it does make living more enjoyable. And I would not have had Kate without it.”

His aunt reached out to stroke the marquess’s brow and his eyes closed once again.

“That is more than he has spoken all day, Gareth. I am so glad you’re here. Come, he will sleep for a few hours now. Let us go downstairs. I must look awful. I’ve been sitting here for days. Although you, my dear, look even worse!”

Gareth laughed out loud and then looked horrified.

“No, no, you will not wake him. And it is so good to hear laughter. Now, tell me when you arrived and where you are staying,” said the marchioness, leading the way downstairs.

By the time Arden returned from her ride, she had forgotten her father’s visitor and the papers he carried. In fact, most of her time had been spent contemplating her father’s plans for her. To take her away from Stalbridge and Ellen and Celia and drop her in her Aunt Millicent’s lap was truly outrageous and unreasonable. Even if Celia did receive an offer of marriage, surely Ellen would not want to move in with her? Surely she would not want to leave a comfortable home and Arden?

But the other alternative? No one had shown any inclination to solicit her hand for more than one dance. One known rake had tried to kiss her, and one fortune hunter had paid her obviously insincere and ridiculous compliments until she laughed in his face. And I have no inclination toward anyone, she thought self-righteously. They are all dull-witted or physically unattractive. If her choice were marriage or Millicent, then it was really no choice, because whom would she marry? Her father’s question, which was who would be willing to marry her, she did not take seriously at all. He had exaggerated on the basis of gossip and Ellen’s overreaction.

But she could not, would not, go live with her father’s sister. Millicent was a cold and rigid woman with no sense of humor. Although she was full of what might pass for family feeling in that she had a highly developed sense of what was due a Huntly, Arden knew she had no real affection for her brother or her niece. Life with Millicent would be like living in Milton’s version of hell. Cold, and with a companion as proud as Lucifer. At least she had the rest of the Season to change her father’s mind. If she was lucky, Celia’s seeming
tendre
for Lord Heronwood would fade away and she and Ellen would be free to return to Stalbridge. By the time she returned to the house, Arden was quite confident that things would work out her way.

* * * *

The earl joined her in the morning room for tea and a light nuncheon. She had decided that sulking (though that did not come naturally to her anyway) and resentment would get her nowhere, so she greeted him as though the conversation of the previous day had not occurred.

“I understand you met Captain Richmond this morning, Arden?”

“Captain Richmond? Oh, you mean that scruffy-looking fellow who came to see you? I could hardly believe he was an officer until he showed me the seals on his dispatches,” she answered coolly.

Her response was hardly one to make the earl feel optimistic about his latest plan.

“His dispatches held some bad news, I’m afraid. I am recalled to the campaign in three weeks’ time.”

Arden did react then, although she could not have said whether it was the prospect of her father going back to the war or her going on to Millicent’s that upset her the most.

“But, Father, you’ve barely arrived.”

“I know, my dear, but the French care little for a daughter’s first Season, you know,” said the earl, attempting to lighten his announcement. “I am upset, but I have no choice.”

“What will it mean, Father?”

“For me? I return to Spain in order to lead the summer campaign.”

“And for me?” she asked, looking down at the small triangles of bread on her plate, as though to figure out how to fit them back together again into one rectangular piece of bread.