The Impossible Ward (10 page)

In the room the guests had so recently graced, the marchioness regarded her son and her charge warmly.

“Well, that went off quite well, I think. Did you enjoy yourself, my child?”

“Oh yes, Ma’am. Everyone was so kind and I enjoyed talking to Mr. Huntingdon and Sophia, Miss Huntingdon, I mean. She has invited me to call, and has promised to show me the most pleasant walks in the neighborhood—if you have no objection, Ma’am?”

“Of course not. I am pleased you will have some companionship of your own age and sex while you are here. Sophia is a sweet girl and very sensible. Now off to bed with you. It has been a very long day.”

Marianne murmured a grateful good night to the marquess and his mother, and headed for the door her host was holding open for her, but paused, remembering something as she reached him. She turned quickly back to the marchioness.

“Before I forget to mention it, my lady, Mr. Huntingdon told me where the nearest Catholic church is. If it will be convenient for you to send a groom with me, I may easily ride the distance each Sunday.”

Justin’s brows jerked together. “You are a Catholic?” he demanded incredulously. “Your father was not.”

Marianne’s silky brows rose slightly. “It is simply another instance of my father’s lifelong disinterest in me that he made no requests about my religious upbringing to my grandparents. My grandmother was French and my grandfather is Irish.” She added sweetly, “Naturally I was raised as a Catholic.”

Justin remained, looking thunderous, as Marianne turned her glance expectantly to her hostess, who hastily promised there would be no problem in arranging transportation each Sunday.

When the girl had again bidden them good night and passed through the door he still remained by the entrance for a time staring moodily at nothing in particular, then abruptly coming to himself, walked back into the room to kiss his mother and absently wish her good night.

She made no effort to detain him, but when she was quite alone, abandoned the unequal struggle against the laughter bubbling up inside her.

“Oh, dear! Poor Justin!” she gasped on a quiver of mirth, addressing the small portrait of her late husband on the fireplace wall, “A bluestocking, a political radical,
and
a Papist!”

CHAPTER SIX

Saturday was spent in a delightfully lazy manner after the rather hectic first day of Marianne’s stay at Lunswick Hall. The marchioness guided her leisurely through the impressive structure that had been in the Raymond family for over two hundred years. The Great Hall and a few of the older bedchambers still exhibited beautifully maintained linenfold paneling and intricate wooden ceilings, but the Hall had been continually repaired and renovated down through the years, and boasted delicate Adam ceilings in some of the newer rooms as well as a plethora of exquisitely carved marble fireplaces in every conceivable shade of the rainbow. Marianne’s practical mind boggled at the expense of maintaining some two dozen or more guest chambers in a condition to be employed at a moment’s notice, and her hostess ruefully admitted to staggering costs in fuel alone. While her husband was living and her sons growing up they had been accustomed to entertaining large numbers of friends and relatives upon the slightest excuse for weeks on end, she confided in a reminiscent vein, but in the last few years guests had been rare. Marianne, not wishing to see her kind hostess brooding over her near seclusion of the immediate past, hastily expressed a desire to examine the kitchens, and they repaired to the heart of the house where a small army of servants could be mobilized to cater for anything from an invalid diet to a large scale feast on public days.

Everything from the open ovens to the newest model in closed cookers by Mr. Bodley was there, kept in spotless condition. It was a rather gray day, but there were no dark corners in these kitchens. Huge ceiling chandeliers were augmented by wall lamps in strategic places, casting a glow over the shining utensils hanging on the white walls. Enormous dressers displayed plates and bowls for every conceivable use, and well-scrubbed tables bore mounds of vegetables awaiting preparation for the evening meal. She could hear cheerful conversation and splashing from the scullery where the kitchen maids were engaged in washing up the luncheon dishes. A cook paused over decorating tiny pastry cases to bob a brief curtsy to the women. Marianne was introduced to the dour Gallic chef who presided over this interesting kingdom. He greeted her with cold politeness, his piercing dark eyes alight with swift suspicion. Later, back in the marchioness’ small sitting room, she apologized for the chef’s barely concealed hostility, explaining that though a culinary artist of the highest degree, Christophe was something of a misogynist. She confessed to an abject dread of upsetting him lest this should lead to his final resignation, detailing for the benefit of her guest’s puzzlement that he resigned on an average of twice a month and was only to be dissuaded by Justin’s diplomacy and, she suspected, outrageous bribes to soothe his ruffled feelings. Marianne rather doubted the validity of her hostess’ self-confessed inability to deal with the irascible Frenchman. In her brief experience of the marquess’ young and vital mother, she already felt it inconceivable that anyone could resist her potent charm, allied as it was to a genuinely warm-hearted interest in those about her.

Of her trustee she saw nothing at all that day. His mother attributed his absence from the breakfast parlor to a desire to get an early start in catching up with the affairs of the estate, which he had neglected for better than a sennight. Evidently he was still engrossed with the aforesaid estate matters at lunch time, because he did not put in an appearance. His mother must have had some communication with him during the interval Marianne spent resting in her room in the afternoon, because at dinner the marchioness casually explained that Justin was spending the evening with friends in the neighborhood. Marianne had not mentioned her trustee once during the long day in his mother’s company and did not do so now, contenting herself with a polite acknowledging smile at this announcement.

It was not until she exited from the huge front door the following morning at Coleman’s announcement that a carriage awaited to convey her ladyship to church, that Marianne encountered her trustee for the first time since the dinner party. The guilty knowledge that she had rather gloated over his chagrin at learning of her religious preference, combined with an unacknowledged little spurt of pleasure on discerning the identity of her driver caused a slight increase in color in her cheeks but she greeted him coolly.

“Good morning, my lord. It is most kind of you to engage to drive me to church, but I do not wish to abuse your hospitality and would feel easier in my mind with one of the grooms.” She made no move to climb into the open phaeton, ignoring the hand he reached down to assist her.

“Get in,” he replied briefly. “We must talk before I leave for London tomorrow, and this is as good a place as any in which to be private.”

She obeyed without another word, digesting this unwelcome bit of news in silence. A sudden lump in her throat had to be swallowed before she could manage briskly:

“Indeed yes, I have not yet asked you about banking arrangements. At the modiste’s on Friday your mother sent a message to Madame Louise requesting the account to be sent to her, but naturally this imposition cannot continue. Shall I use a bank in Bath, my lord?”

“Naturally you will continue to have all bills sent to the Hall for my settlement,” he replied, glancing at her in surprise. “What other arrangements had you contemplated?”

Marianne frowned in puzzlement. “I assumed, of course, that you would deposit my income in a convenient bank so that I might draw upon it to meet my expenses.”

“As your trustee it is my duty to manage your income, and except for your wardrobe, you will incur no expenses while my mother’s guest under my roof.”

She resented the hint of arrogance in his tone and plunged recklessly:

“I planned to purchase a riding hack and ... and perhaps even set up my carriage. I like this phaeton, by the by, but naturally I would not dream of increasing your stable expenses with my cattle.”

“How gratifying that you should admire my choice of conveyance,” he drawled, “but,” and the smooth tones hardened and became less equable, “understand that you will purchase no horseflesh and commission no vehicles built while I am away. I will mount you during your stay. In fact, after church I planned to introduce you to a two-year-old black I acquired yesterday for your use. He’s smallish but with plenty of spirit and a good mouth. As far as a carriage is concerned, you may drive the gig while I’m gone, and on my return I’ll take you around and show you the finger points of handling a phaeton and pair.”

As the girl by his side sat silent, torn between fierce resentment of his high-handed actions and a grudging appreciation of his thoughtfulness in immediately selecting a special horse for her use, he hesitated and then went on more slowly:

“I will make available a certain amount for your personal use, pin money as it were. You will have no need to deal with banks.”

“Pin money!” she echoed in bitter accents and turned a rebellious face toward him. “My grandfather, bless his heart, has no conception of money, neither has he any interest in it. I have handled the household accounts since my grandmother died and for the last five years I have had the sole management of the farm accounts as well. Grandpere’s income is deposited quarterly.” A thought struck her suddenly. “I apprehend my father was the source of that income?” At his nod of confirmation she continued in the same even tone, “I paid the wages, if money was needed for repairs I bargained with the workmen, hired them, and paid them for the work. When stock was bought I handled the selection, with Jonathan’s assistance, and paid for the purchase. If a crop failed I saw to it that economies were made, and negotiated any loans necessary to tide us over the bad period. And you tell me I shall be given pin money like some schoolroom child to spend on my small pleasures? Should I thank you, my lord?”

For a time the only sound in the quiet morning was the rhythmic clopping of the horses’ shoes, but the challenge in the air was almost tangible.

“No, I do not expect thanks from you, my child, but...”

“I am not yours, nor am I a child!” she almost spat out.

“Then you will not subject me to childish displays of rudeness!” he snapped back, suddenly as incensed as she. “I am well aware of both circumstances,” he went on in an aggravatingly reasonable tone after a dangerous interval when brown eyes clashed with purple. Although ashamed of her outburst, she refused to lower her gaze and had the ultimate satisfaction of seeing him, of necessity, turn back to the horses without having subdued her.

“You have accepted grave responsibilities at an age when young girls should be going to parties and thinking of nothing more serious than the season’s fashions,” he began in a preoccupied tone and raised an absentminded hand to quell any remarks from her. “This is an unnatural situation, no matter how capably you have carried out the role thrust upon you. You are past due for some light relief and good times, and in any event, your capabilities do not alter the present situation. By law I have control of your income until you marry, though naturally I am anxious to accede to all reasonable requests.”

“Until I marry? I have no intention of marrying, but for the sake of argument, what happens to my fortune if I do marry?”

“Naturally your financial affairs would then revert to your husband’s care.”

“You mean my problematical husband would control my income?”

“Of course, and the capital as well; that is the law.”

She bit off a furious exclamation to demand, “As a mere chattel am I permitted to inquire just how great a matrimonial prize I might be, my lord?”

His face reflected his distaste at this plain speaking but he answered evenly, “Your father’s estate was in the neighborhood of a quarter of a million pounds.”

He heard her swiftly indrawn breath, though she made no comment, and turned to meet the somewhat bleak expression in the lovely eyes with a burning fierceness in his own.

“You need have no fear that I would ever permit a fortune hunter to address you.”

She smiled at that but the violet eyes did not lighten as she replied quietly, “I thank you for your concern for my future, my lord, but with such a huge fortune I shall never be sure, shall I?”

“Yes, you
will
!” he ground between clenched teeth.

The force of the brief repudiation struck her silent, and try as she might she could discover no light remark with which to reopen the conversation, though it was suddenly of tremendous importance to learn why he was so sure she would not be married for the sake of her fortune.

Having delivered himself of this conviction, however, the marquess seemed disinclined to pursue this or any other subject, and they arrived at the stone church without another word of conversation passing between them.

To Marianne’s great surprise the marquess did not drive away after assisting her down from the phaeton, but proceeded to accompany her inside the church. He remained by her side throughout the Latin service, seemingly quite at ease in the unfamiliar setting, his unreadable face composed and thoughtful. Still shaken from their unsatisfactory financial discussion and embarrassingly aware that she and the splendidly attired marquess were objects of much covert speculation among the dozens of fellow worshippers present, Marianne was too
distraite
initially to give much attention to her surroundings. Seesawing between bitter resentment of the control her titled trustee had over her life, and an equally uncomfortable churning sensation that resembled—inexplicably—elation at his presence at her side, contributed to her unreceptive state, but eventually the solemnity and peace attending the age-old celebration of worship seeped into her being, calming her spirit and soothing her turbulent emotions. She realized with a guilty pang that the marquess, high-handed though his actions might appear to someone accustomed to making all decisions for herself, as well as all practical ones for her unworldly grandfather, was sincere in trying to do his best for her, and had received up to this point scant appreciation for his unremitting efforts on her behalf. It was not his fault that her unorthodox upbringing had not fitted her to play the role so suddenly assigned to her. Where was her sense of fair play that she should mentally castigate him simply because her nature rebelled at being treated as an incompetent child, which was, after all, exactly how unmarried women were dealt with by long right of custom and law.

At this point in her musings she sent a troubled glance at the silent figure by her side and received a cool but strangely reassuring little nod in return. Suddenly she experienced a lessening of the tension that had hitherto existed between them, accompanied by a corresponding lifting of her spirits.

When at last they exited into the sunshine, she was feeling more in charity with her companion than at any time in their short and stormy acquaintance, and an air of mild comradeship hung over the sports phaeton as they wended their way past the Hall to the stables, where Marianne was immediately captivated by the strong sleek beauty of the newest addition to the marquess’ stable. She had first paused to bestow a friendly pat on the nose of each occupant of the several stalls they passed on their way to the location of the new black, artlessly declaring her disinclination to arouse jealousy among the other horses.

“For they are like pampered children, you know, going into the sulks if they are overlooked.” She failed to note the fleeting look of indulgent amusement that visited her guardian’s face at this engagingly uttered confidence, so absorbed was she at that instant in her initial delight at the appearance of the horse he had acquired for her use.

“Oh, what a beauty! Yes, I do mean you, you darling,” she laughed, as a coal-black head turned immediately in her direction, nudging her shoulder and demanding his share of attention.

“Aye, he’s a right fine young’un,” agreed Melstead, his lordship’s head groom as he led the black out into the yard for a thorough examination. “Smallish, but strong, with a nice turn for speed and no bad habits. I reckon your ladyship will find him a comfortable ride.”

“Oh, I am sure I shall,” Marianne enthused. “He looks a speedster for all his quiet manners. We shall have some glorious rides together, you magnificent creature,” she added, petting the inquisitive nose lovingly.

“What is his name?”

It was her trustee who answered. “He’s called Thurgood’s Choice, but you may rename him to suit yourself.”

“Well, he is choice indeed, but I think I shall call him Ebony instead. He’s blacker than black, isn’t he?” she inquired, obviously in a rhetorical spirit since her attention never left the animal to whom she continued to address a stream of loving nonsense in crooning tones while the two men gazed indulgently at the attractive picture made by the two healthy, vibrant creatures engrossed in mutual admiration.

When at last a reluctant Marianne had been persuaded to return to the Hall, the tentative rapport that had come into existence with the marquess was reinforced by her sincerely expressed appreciation for his thoughtfulness in acquiring Ebony. “I hoped you would like him,” he replied simply, and initiated an amiable discussion on the points of the black that lasted until they had entered the Hall. Only at the last moment did anything occur to lessen the complete accord in which these erstwhile antagonists now found themselves.