The Impossible Ward (5 page)

“Unthinkable. She would never leave the children, especially with the baby ailing.”

“Well then, ask one of your women friends to recommend a temporary abigail.”

“I have no women friends except Margery.”

His eyes narrowed and a small line appeared between his brows. “Do you mean me to comprehend that you are not upon ordinary visiting terms with the local matrons or farmer’s wives?”

“Well, you see, we did not come here until after Grandmere died when I was twelve years old. There
was
no woman in the house to call upon. Grandpere, as you may have guessed, is not a particularly social being, although the dearest man alive, and consequently I do not have any female friends.” There was a tender expression on her usually impassive face when speaking of her grandfather and certainly no regret or complaint in her voice, but the marquess’ brisk tones softened somewhat as he murmured:

“A lonely life for a young girl.”

“Oh no, pray, do not think it. I had Grandpere and the rector, who is Grandpere’s greatest friend and mine also, and Jack of course. And in the last few years Margery and Jonathan and the children too. I have never been lonely except just at first after Grandmere’s death.”

“Who is Jack?”

“Jack is Squire Richmond’s son. Grandpere tutored him until he went to Cambridge—in fact we shared lessons for years and I was forever visiting the Manor while Mrs. Richmond was alive.”

“Do you have some idea of marrying this Jack?”

This time one of her delicate black brows arched, clearly conveying her opinion of such an impertinent question, and she vouchsafed no reply but continued to look at him steadily. For some reason he preferred to delay the confirmation of a strong suspicion that she was so entirely lacking in the decorum and training expected of a young female as actually to engage in a staring contest with a gentleman. He explained a trifle hastily:

“My position as your trustee gives me certain ... er ... rights in your life. The marriage settlement for instance will be arranged by me and it...”

“Well, I do not intend to marry so that need not trouble you,” she interrupted coolly. “When do you wish to leave?”

“As soon as we may engage an abigail for you. Perhaps the rector will know of someone.”

But in the end it was Jack Richmond to whom they were indebted for the solution to this irksome problem. He came that afternoon to Crestview Farm to verify the wild rumors circulating widely in the district that a London lord had come amongst honest country folk to remove old Sean O’Doyle’s granddaughter, who had turned out to be a titled lady. Upon receiving confirmation on all the essentials from Marianne herself, his honest face became troubled and vaguely unhappy. He and his tutor’s granddaughter had been the best of friends for almost ten years, and during his time at Cambridge it had been her companionship that he had come to miss most. Only three and twenty himself, he had as yet given little thought to marriage and had been content to go along in the familiar pattern of many years’ standing, but now he felt as though an enemy had deliberately set about to destroy the design of his future.

“Do you
wish
to go amongst the nobility, Marianne?” he asked bluntly, studying her anxiously with candid blue eyes.

“Not in the least, but Grandpere is determined that I should seize this opportunity to live the sort of life he says my birth entitles me to lead. I cannot convince him that I am completely content with the life I lead now.” She sighed deeply. “He has made my consent a test of filial obligation. Never before has he demanded anything of me, so I must obey him in this; but, Jack, I do so hate to leave him. You will not neglect to call often, will you, and if he seems at all unhappy you must promise to write to me immediately.”

“Of course I will, and the rector too will bear him company often. He is bound to miss you of course, but if he is so determined to have you go then you must bow to his wish. How long do you mean to stay in Somerset?”

“As brief a time as possible,” she answered with tightened lips.

“And when do you go?”

“Ah, there’s the rub. The marquess insists that I must have a woman to accompany me on the journey.” She ignored his surprised, “Well, naturally,” and continued. “But I do not know of anyone who might be available. He intends to ask the rector’s advice.”

“I can help you there, I believe,” Jack answered unexpectedly. “The Abbingdons’ former governess is traveling to Bath to take up a new position. Bella Abbingdon said she was to leave on tomorrow’s stage. She was ecstatic over the prospect of getting rid of her at long last, says she’s excessively hen-witted and a long-winded bore into the bargain.”

“Thank you so much,” Marianne said dryly. “Not that it matters how uncongenial we find each other for a three-day journey. The marquess is already chafing at the thought of a prolonged stay in the wilds of Yorkshire.”

“How unpardonably rude of me to have displayed such rank ingratitude for Yorkshire hospitality, if I did so,” interjected a suave voice from the open doorway. As he strolled languidly into the room, he observed the familiar frozen lifelessness slide down over the girl’s features, but she betrayed neither embarrassment nor apology as she made the two men known to each other. She watched with a supercritical eye but could detect nothing of patronage in the marquess’ manner toward the younger man. Once again those perfect manners were very much in evidence.

While the gentlemen indulged in a few moments’ desultory conversation, Marianne noted with irrational satisfaction that, although Jack could not compete with the sartorial splendor of a London buck, his neat appearance and well set up figure were not cast into the shade by the elegant marquess. The appearance of both men gave pleasing evidence of robust health and natural athletic ability. Jack was not quite so tall as the marquess but his shoulders were every bit as broad and his carriage was graceful and erect. She told herself that although his features did not possess the classic perfection of those of the marquess, she much preferred his open expressive mien to that satirically smiling yet unrevealing mask habitually adorning the latter’s handsome countenance. She grudgingly admitted that gold-streaked, dark blond hair and light brown eyes, vividly contrasting with tanned skin, rendered the marquess’ coloring more spectacular than Jack’s ruddy-faced, brown-haired and blue-eyed combination, but was confident that in every human quality and personality trait Jack would have the edge. Content with the results of her silent comparison, she interrupted their discussion of the fishing in the area to inform the marquess of the possibility of securing the services of the Abbingdons’ former governess as a traveling companion.

The marquess expressed suitable appreciation for this information and accepted Jack’s offer of an immediate introduction to Miss Twistleton.

After this, events moved with astonishing rapidity as the marquess demonstrated an organizational ability that would have been heartily welcome in the military or civil service. Somewhat bemused by the entire situation, Marianne allowed herself to be maneuvered into the niche prepared for her by her efficient trustee, scarcely demurring even when he ordered her to pack a wardrobe sufficient only for the trip, remarking carelessly that his mother would see to her outfitting immediately on her arrival in Somerset. Truth to tell, she barely absorbed any information concerning her proposed visit, being almost totally. involved with the imminent pain of parting from her grandfather for the first time in her twenty-two years. She accomplished her minimal packing mechanically while she devoted her mental energies to enumerating a long list of instructions and reminders to Clara concerning the diet, comfort, and well-being of her grandfather during her absence. For the remainder of the day and evening she went about her allotted tasks as absently as a sleepwalker, only surfacing briefly when Jonathan arrived to discuss the running of the farm. Even in this sphere the marquess’ suggestion prevailed and Jonathan assured her he would have no trouble hiring sufficient labor as it became necessary.

Thus it was not surprising that, as the moment for final good-byes arrived, scarcely thirty-six hours after his arrival in the district, Justin should be feeling well satisfied and in command of the situation.

Alas that these agreeable sentiments should prove no more than fond illusions, destined for extinction before even the second stop for a change of horses.

CHAPTER FOUR

Marianne’s air of bemused compliance did not survive the short drive to the post road. The initial period was spent in a silent struggle to suppress the unhappy tears she was determined not to shed in the presence of the hateful marquess. Consequently she fixed a somewhat fierce scowl upon her face and stared rigidly out of the window, responding in monosyllables to Miss Twistleton’s diffident conversational overtures. After a time the latter, thus rebuffed, turned to the marquess with determinedly agreeable though slightly desperate efforts to put a good face on an awkward situation.

“I daresay the poor child is feeling wretchedly unhappy leaving home for the first time. Such a pity. But one comprehends perfectly, of course. I well remember leaving to take up my first post, not that the situations were truly comparable, of course. I had no close relative living, merely an aunt who was not really an aunt at all but only a sort of cousin—but I called her aunt, you see, since I was living under her protection until I was old enough to take up a position. Naturally there was not the same degree of
attachment
as in the case of this dear child and her grandfather, but one experiences such a sense of
strangeness
at partings and even a touch of fear for the future.” She emitted a deprecating little laugh and flashed an apologetic glance at the marquess, whose countenance was taking on a rigid set and hurried on.

“Not that I meant to imply that Lady Marianne need fear the future. I am persuaded your dear mama will make her most welcome, but one cannot deny that the strangeness of a new experience can give rise to doubts and put one out of countenance for a time until one can adjust to the idea. But what am I about,” she cried with another little laugh, “letting my tongue run on like a fiddlestick, just as if my dearest friend, Miss Denton, had not told me times without number that many gentlemen simply cannot abide female chatter.” Her hopeful glance at the marquess was met with a laconic, “Just so.”

She nodded sagely, “Yes, I well remember Mr. Atwell, the husband of my first employer and a truly estimable man in most respects, but whenever the ladies were gathered together he would pick up a book and simply
hide
behind it, pretending to hear nothing of the conversation. It was often necessary to address a remark to him
several
times before he would be so obliging as to respond.” She tittered again. “How upset Mrs. Atwell would become, but I always told her one cannot change a gentleman’s nature; one simply has to put up with their odd humors and habits as, of course, they are obliged to endure ours.” She was reminded then of an odd quirk in her second employer’s behavior and was immediately launched into an anecdote relating to this.

Marianne, whose struggle to keep back the demeaning tears had left her filled with black resentment toward the author of her troubles, gradually became aware of the strong current of suppressed irritation emanating from the marquess, and as the endless flow of inconsequential chatter from their traveling companion began to penetrate her self-absorption, of the reason for his somewhat glazed expression. Once he glanced her way with something suspiciously akin to appeal in the light brown eyes. Hastily she averted her face to hide her amusement, and passingly considered a pretense of sleep which should effectively abandon him to this very fitting punishment for his attitude when she had questioned the necessity of a chaperon. For a short time she did actually impose the stillness of complete relaxation on her features, but presently she decided she must intervene to prevent the marquess from giving the garrulous Miss Twistleton a stinging set-down. She was basically a kind-hearted girl and though no more content with this enforced companionship than the marquess seemed to be, she strongly suspected Miss Twistleton’s mindless meanderings stemmed from a nervous awe at finding herself in his intimidating presence, and from a real dread of a prolonged silence. Clearly it behooved her to alter the pattern and quickly. It may have gone against the grain to rescue the detestable marquess, but she shuddered to contemplate the scene should an ill-considered masculine action cause Miss Twistleton’s sense of inferiority to erupt in a
crise de nerfs.
The taut little woman obviously prided herself on her sensibility, and her suffering would be in proportion to the fancied delicacy of her nerves.

Consequently Marianne entered the conversation with well-feigned affability, and with the marquess’ skillful connivance succeeded fairly well in keeping to impersonal topics until they reached the posting house where he planned to stop for a change of horses and some refreshments for the ladies. They found the ordinary bill of fare quite tolerable and sincerely welcomed the opportunity to stretch their legs, especially Marianne, who was not only completely unused to the rigors of traveling but also to physical confinement of any sort. She had told no more than the simple truth when informing the marquess that she ran her grandfather’s farm, to which her calloused hands and sunburned skin gave mute testimony. The sight of the marquess taking advantage of a lull in the rain to have Mountain saddled gave fresh impetus to her seething resentment as she stared fixedly at the chaise with distaste before entering it. In all fairness she could not but sympathize with the marquess’ desire to ride, but an uncharitable emotion she had no difficulty in recognizing as envy caused her to take a jaundiced view of his action. Not that she had so far experienced the slightest desire for his company, but now she would bear the full brunt of their companion’s excessive civility for the seemingly eternal afternoon. Never had an indifferent countryside been more thoroughly discussed. Except for Jack Richmond the two women had no acquaintance in common, and here all Miss Twistleton’s sly questions and hints of a closer bond than friendship between Jack and Marianne were met with a blank stare from the latter which, had Miss Twistleton been better acquainted with Marianne’s upbringing and lifestyle, she would have known reflected genuine surprise. As it was she felt rebuffed and became stiffly correct and formal in her manner, but since this was not accompanied by a corresponding lessening in the volume of her chatter, Marianne could not be said to have benefitted by the change. Indeed by the time they reached the posting house where they would put up for the night, Marianne was so surfeited with a steady diet of “your ladyship” this and “your ladyship” that that she must needs clamp her teeth tightly together to prevent a scream of sheer frustration at this hateful form of address. When at long last the marquess assisted her to descend the steps of the chaise in the inn yard, she fixed him with such a fulminating eye that he looked momentarily taken aback. By the time the trio had entered the large reception hall, however, he had grasped the situation and was wearing a faintly amused expression that did nothing to mitigate Marianne’s sense of ill usage.

Later, in the private dining parlor he had hired, their host exerted his not inconsiderable charm to entertain the ladies at dinner, but his efforts met with indifferent success. To be sure, Miss Twistleton was all atwitter and giggled appreciatively at his wit in a manner more appropriate to a budding debutante than a maiden lady on the shady side of forty, but Marianne remained singularly unmoved by a really creditable performance, only speaking when directly addressed. She pleaded fatigue at the earliest possible moment and fell into bed in a state bordering on blank despair. She was intensely homesick and worried about leaving her grandfather and, despite his assurances that he was looking forward to devoting most of his time to a study of Egyptian history during the next months, was convinced that he would feel the gap in his life made by her absence much more keenly than he was admitting. They were very deeply attached to one another and he had had complete charge of her education for the past ten years. Consequently she had received the same type of instruction as his, former university scholars, and her mind was trained in the same manner. A day spent in the unnerving company of Miss Twistleton had served only to emphasize how sadly unfitted she was for the company of women. Her days were crammed full of practical problems concerning the running of the farm and her evenings spent in the erudite company of her grandfather and the rector. Until today she had never realized how subtly her life had changed following her grandmother’s death. In the past few years she had not even once experienced the pangs of guilt that had first assailed her whenever she thought of the exquisite embroidery work that her grandmother was noted for. She had been attempting to teach Marianne the skill with conspicuously little success at the time of her death, and Marianne had not picked up a needle in the intervening years. Her grandmother, being a thrifty Frenchwoman, had stressed homemaking skills, and Marianne was well able to order a household, but, she thought with unaccustomed self-pity, how little benefit such practical arts would be in the environment of wealth to which she was heading. For the first time ever it occurred to her that she had no feminine accomplishments at all. She had not once touched a pianoforte or a needle in ten years. As a very young child her drawings and attempts at watercolor painting had caused her grandmother to go off in fits of laughter. “You will never be the artist, chérie,” had been Grandmere’s judgment. “We must see to your musical education.” So while she lived, Marianne had been well taught and there was promise of future proficiency on the pianoforte. She had a pleasing voice too, but both skills had been abandoned when they moved to the farm following her grandmother’s demise. They had taken few possessions with them; her grandfather had been desolate at the loss of his wife and quite beyond thinking about music teachers and pianofortes at the time. Later, when they had settled into a comfortable routine on the farm, Marianne had been too thrilled by the freedom of outdoor living and the workings of the farm to regret the loss of her music. As her grandfather gradually became interested in taking over her education, she found herself completely happy with his program and his companionship.

“I should have been born a male,” she mourned aloud, with sudden shattering conviction. “I have been educated as a boy would be, I’ve had the freedom of a boy—I am no kind of female at all.”

It never occurred to her that, in all probability, if she had been a boy her life would have been very different, for her father would undoubtedly have taken over the upbringing of a male heir. She never thought of her father at all, for at this point in her unhappy musings she fell into a disturbed sleep in the unfamiliar, too soft bed.

In the morning things seemed no better as she looked around the impersonal room with listless eyes, absently assessing its heavy solid appointments—anything to avoid dwelling on the prospect of another long day confined in a carriage with Miss Twistleton. A hasty glance outside confirmed her gloomy mood. A driving rain beat a tattoo against the window. The reluctant daylight barely lightened the shadowed corners of the room. She pulled a wry face as she swung her legs reluctantly out of the warm bed, then a thought caused the corners of her mouth to reverse direction and tilt up in amusement. She would confidently wager her next corn crop that the marquess was even less pleased with the weather than she was. The grin grew wider. No riding for him today! Well, she thought with a determined gleam in her blue-violet eyes, he could take a turn at being the little governess’ captive audience since he had arranged for her presence on this interminable journey. And to this
end she began rummaging through her meager baggage, emerging triumphantly a moment later carrying the book her grandfather had pressed upon her at her departure.

Thus armed she appeared at breakfast, wearing her customary cool composure as a protective cloak to cover her unhappiness. Her trustee, however, fixed a penetrating stare upon her face and thought he detected shadows beneath her eyes causing them to appear darker than ever. Marianne would have been astonished to discover that beneath his polite urbanity he was shrewdly assessing her every action, and had conceived a very fair notion of the anxiety she was experiencing as a future rushed up to meet her that she could never have contemplated in her wildest imaginings.

He permitted a hint of a smile to lighten his expression as his eyes fell on the book she had placed beside her with a faintly defiant air. However he said nothing, preferring to allow her the discovery that reading in a carriage, no matter how well sprung, traveling at speed over indifferent roads was an impossible situation.

And indeed she soon realized that a pounding head and swimming eyes represented too high a price to pay for a bit of isolation, no matter how desperately she wished for solitude. The second day was even more interminable than the first, now that any sense of novelty had worn off. The rain continued unabated throughout the long day, but the marquess seemed to have hit upon the correct approach to reduce Miss Twistleton’s spate of anecdotal prattle to endurable, though admittedly tedious, proportions. He alternately teased and flattered her, pandering to her taste for tales of titled persons, describing visits to palatial estates that held the governess enthralled. When she succumbed to an anecdotal urge, he promptly capped her tale with one of his own. All of this was done in a perfectly straightforward manner, but from time to time Marianne, darting piercing glances at his serious countenance, surprised a dancing gleam in his eyes that gave birth to a potent suspicion on her part that his charming manner masked a strong and probably reprehensible sense of humor. At first she was inclined to be indignant for Miss Twistleton’s sake, but closer observation of that lady revealed that she was having the time of her life, revelling in the friendly attentions of a titled gentleman. Any hints that the titled gentleman in question was amusing himself at her expense would only serve to crush her sensibilities; so except for sending him a number of scathing looks which he blandly ignored, Marianne remained silent.

On this and the following day her contributions to the conversation represented no more than the bare minimum demanded by common civility. She had been thinking deeply about her changed circumstances, but could find only one aspect that promised an agreeable situation. The marquess had told her that a cousin had inherited her father’s title and entailed estate. On questioning the identity of this cousin she was agreeably surprised to discover that not only was this unknown relative the son of her father’s younger brother, but that he was only a couple of years older than Marianne herself. She was even more delighted to learn that she was also possessed of a female cousin. Aubrey’s younger sister, Claire, was twenty years of age. Apart from her grandparents, Marianne had never had any relatives before, and she was inordinately pleased with this sudden influx of them. She longed to question her trustee more closely about Aubrey and Claire but there was never one moment during the journey when she could be private with him and, as it was clearly ineligible to be discussing family matters in the presence of Miss Twistleton, she was compelled to contain her impatience to learn more about these newly discovered relations.