The Tudor Signet (12 page)

Lady Lilian had wanted to give her a new gown. All her clothes were most unsuitable now she was well enough to sit in the drawing room, well enough to meet callers. Mariette had not pointed out that she was well enough to go home. How could she bear to be parted from Lord...from her new friends?

Nor did she protest that she didn’t want to meet the neighbours, none of whom had ever seen fit to call at Bell-Tor Manor. If her kind hostess wished to present her to them, she would just have to do her best, keep her mouth closed and endure whatever scorn her gaucherie brought down upon her.

So, though she could not possible accept any new clothes, she allowed Jenny to alter her old, drab, heavy woollen gowns. The abigail even sewed on a bit of lace and some ribbons taken from dresses Emily had outgrown. Putting on the navy blue, now trimmed with a light blue satin bow at the waist and lace around the high neckline, Mariette had felt quite smart. With Lord Malcolm standing below in the hall, handsome and elegant and looking up at her, she had this awful urge to tug on the breast-hugging bodice.

Her hesitation alarmed him. “What is wrong?” He started up the stairs, two at a time. “Pray lean on my arm.”

She was tempted. “No, I must do it myself. I am quite all right, only a little stiff.”

“Hold onto the banister.”

Obeying, she glanced back at the hovering abigail. “Thank you, Jenny, I shan’t need your help. I expect Lord Malcolm will catch me if I fall over my own feet.”

“With pleasure,” he assured her, a glint in his eye.

Was he flirting with her, or just teasing? Mariette was not sure. She moved very carefully down the stairs.

At the bottom, he gravely congratulated her, and insisted that she lean on his arm to cross the hall.

The drawing room was an impressive apartment. Corycombe was no larger than Bell-Tor Manor but it was modern and well cared for. The rooms were beautifully proportioned and elegantly decorated, and the woodwork gleamed. Sinking onto a sofa provided with extra cushions by the attentive Emily, Mariette gazed around.

The predominant colour was a smoky blue-grey, reminding Mariette of Lord Malcolm’s eyes. Gold braid and fringes on crimson curtains and cushions picked up the tones of the portrait over the fireplace, a young gentleman in ceremonial robes.

“That is Papa,” Emily informed Mariett, “in his finery for the opening of Parliament. He was Viscount Farrar of Dorland. My uncle is Lord Farrar now and lives at Dorland. It is a very grand house but I like Corycombe better. Your papa was a French lord, was he not?”

“Yes, though it is immaterial as there are no lords in France any more.”

“Oh, but there are,” said Lord Malcolm casually. “Since he crowned himself emperor, Bonaparte has created a new nobility and restored some of the old to their ranks and estates.”

“Has he?” Mariette said, surprised. “I know he is emperor--the servants and tenants talk and Ralph sometimes brings home a newspaper--but Uncle George doesn’t take one and the books in our library are all at least twenty years old.”

Emily clapped her hands. “How splendid, Mariette, perhaps you can recover your papa’s estate!”

“Hardly! Recollect that we are at war with France and Boney is our enemy! I would not accept a brass farthing from the monster.”

“Oh yes,” said Emily, disappointed.

Lord Malcolm smiled warmly at Mariette, so warmly she was suddenly much too hot. Fortunately Miss Thorne came in and her glance of icy disapproval instantly cooled Mariette’s burning cheeks.

“Did you ask her ladyship whether she wishes to admit you to her drawing room, Miss Bertrand?” she asked suspiciously.

They all spoke at once.

“Mama invited Mariette.”

“It was Lilian’s suggestion.”

“I assure you, ma’am, I’ve no desire to encroach.”

“Humph!” sniffed Miss Thorne and took her mustard knitting from her tapestry-work knitting bag. “I suppose Lilian knows what she is about.”

That day the only callers were the vicar of St. Bride’s in Wickenton and his wife. A benign but somewhat lethargic elderly couple, they were not inclined to be critical, especially as Mariette was from a different parish.

She carefully observed Lady Lilian’s and Emily’s every word and action, and kept her mouth shut except when directly addressed. Enquiries about her health were easily answered--she had no intention of disclosing the site of her injuries!--and comments on Lady Lilian’s Christian charity were equally easy to respond to. She managed not to put either herself or her kind hostess to the blush.

The next day was more difficult. Word had spread that Mariette was on show and a constant stream of visitors came to view her.

Again she took refuge in reticence. Most were polite enough and did not pester her with questions, Lady Lilian having made it clear that she was convalescent. Nonetheless she heartily sympathized with the caged wild beasts her step-papa once took her to see at the Tower of London.

Most trying were Sir Nesbit and Lady Bolger and their offspring. Miss Bolger, a muffin-faced girl a year or two older than Emily, stared at Mariette with alarm in her prominent eyes, as if afraid she might bite. Young Mr. Bolger knew Ralph and loudly pronounced him a rattling good fellow, an out-and-outer up to every rig and row. He continued in this vein until his father, still more loudly, announced that if his son and heir followed Riddlesworth’s example he’d find himself at Point Nonplus in no time.

“Ramshackle puppy!” he snorted.

Lady Bolger was worst. A noted gossipmonger, she was determined to wring from Mariette every detail of her past, her life at Bell-Tor Manor, and her future prospects. Lord Malcolm sat beside Mariette and did his best to shield her unobtrusively, but it was Lady Lilian who saved her. She asked about Miss Bolger’s coming London Season, a topic still more interesting to the young lady’s hopeful mama.

After that, Mariette only had to endure an occasional query about her own lack of a Season and snide commiseration on her being practically on the shelf. The Bolgers did not stay long, although they had come some distance. Sir Nesbit failed to interest Lord Malcolm in the local hunt, and his daughter’s Court and coming-out ball gowns he decried, loudly, as feminine fripperies beneath his notice. Bored, he removed his family after half an hour.

“Thank heaven!” said Lady Lilian as the door closed behind them. “Another five minutes and I should have had to offer tea. Emmie, when we come to preparing for your Season, pray do not let me prose on and on about your gowns like that! Mariette, are you quite exhausted?”

“Only of sitting still and minding my tongue, Lady Lilian. I should like to walk a little.”

“Take my arm,” said Lord Malcolm at once, helping her to stand. “Play us a march, Emmie.”

Laughing, Emily went to the piano and looked through her music. Mariette and Lord Malcolm strolled to one end of the long room, admired a landscape hanging there, and strolled back. As they passed Miss Thorne she muttered something disagreeable about wearing a path in the carpet.

Lord Malcolm pressed Mariette’s hand and she made no response, but Lady Lilian had overheard.

“My dear Cousin Tabitha,” she said, more sharply than Mariette had yet heard her speak, “carpets are made to be walked on.”

“I am only trying to preserve your beautiful possessions, Lilian,” said Miss Thorne with an injured sniff.

Mariette looked down at the carpet, patterned with an intricate design in blue-grey and crimson, which she had not particularly noted before. “It is a splendid carpet,” she said in an undertone to Lord Malcolm. She could not be overheard as Emily started to thump away at a march. “I am surprised Miss Thorne appreciates beauty when she chooses such a revolting colour for her knitting.”

“She knits for the Poor Basket,” he said sardonically. “The poor do not deserve attractive colours. They must be kept in their place.”

“Is that what she thinks?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, slightly shamefaced. “Perhaps she likes mustard-yellow and believes the recipients do too.”

They reached the window at the end of the drawing room and stood looking down the valley. The sky was hazy and a brisk breeze from the southwest rippled through the bare woods. Mariette’s mind was elsewhere.

“I should not care to model my behaviour on Miss Thorne’s,” she said hesitantly. “I daresay she is always decorous and ladylike and proper, but I cannot like her disposition. Nor would I choose Lady Bolger as a patterncard.”

“Good Lord no! Dreadful female.”

“I expect it is a great impertinence in me to presume to criticize when I have not the least notion how to go on, but--”

“Not at all. You show excellent judgment. But...?”

“But I am so very lucky to have made Lady Lilian’s acquaintance first, to be able to compare the others to her. She is a perfect lady, is she not?”

“Come now, Miss Bertrand, you cannot expect a brother to admit to his sister’s perfection! You see, I remember her teaching me to climb trees.”

“She did?” Astonished, Mariette glanced back to view Lady Lilian with an entirely new eye. “That only adds to her perfection--but I know how to climb trees.”

He grinned. “I was sure you must, and without a teacher no doubt. However, in other matters I will agree you cannot do better than to learn from her.”

The music stopped. “You are not walking,” cried Emily.

“Play something a little less vigorous,” proposed her uncle. “Miss Bertrand is not quite well enough to join the army after all.”

Not quite well enough to join the army, perhaps, Mariette thought, but for several days she had been quite well enough to go home. Uncle George’s aged trap would be uncomfortable, but not unbearable with a cushion on the seat, if she were not offered the use of a carriage. She must not take advantage of Lady Lilian’s generosity much longer.

Just one more day she would give herself to learn what she could by observing her ladyship. One more day to be cossetted by Emily and Jenny. One more day to lean on Lord Malcolm’s arm, to bask in the warmth of his smile.

Did she dare hope he might call at Bell-Tor Manor?

Chapter 8

After helping Mariette upstairs, a frustrating process as he’d much rather have carried her, Malcolm sought out his sister. Remorseless, he invaded her sanctum, a small room part study and part sitting room. She used it to keep her accounts, write letters, consult with bailiff, housekeeper, and butler, and also to escape her household. No one entered without an appointment or an invitation.

No one except a disrespectful younger brother with a matter of pressing importance on his mind.

“Lilian, are you going to offer to teach Mariette?”

She glared at him over gold-rimmed spectacles. “This is my private room.”

“Good, no one will interrupt us. Good gad, Lilian, I didn’t know you wore spectacles.”

“Only for close work,” she said defensively, laying down her pen and taking them off with a self-conscious air. “Since you arrived I have had no time for reading or embroidery. Pray do not tell...anyone.”

“Oho, vain, are we? You need not fret, Des won’t care a groat.”

Lilian blushed. “I was not thinking of Captain Aldrich. You did make sure he understands he is expected to dinner tomorrow?”

“He’ll be here. Mariette will be well enough to dine with us, too, I believe. When do you mean to offer to teach her?”

“I have not said I will.”

“She won’t be offended, Lilian, truly. Have you not noticed how bashful she is with visitors? She is afraid of making mistakes. You must be aware how closely she observes you and Emily.”

“Indeed! I find myself thinking twice before I say a word or move a finger.”

“She told me today she thinks you quite perfect.”

“Perfect!” Lilian groaned. “Oh, Malcolm, what a dreadful responsibility.”

“I had a notion that would disturb you.” He grinned. “So I revealed your tree-climbing youth.”

“You wretch!”

“Not the green-apple episode, not yet.”

“You would not!”

“Not if you agree to teach her,” Malcolm said blandly and shamelessly.

“Odious wretch! I shall speak to her tomorrow. As a matter of fact, I had already decided to offer to help her. I like her.”

“Bless you, Lilian! She is a darling, isn’t she? Do you think she might come to care for me enough to marry me?”

“You do mean to ask her, do you? I feared you intended to wed her out of hand.”

“Now who is the wretch? I shall go down on my knees to her.” He glanced down at his immaculate trousers. “If necessary. Will she have me?”

“How can I tell? It is far too early for you to press her. Wait at least until she is more at home in the world, for she has her pride and will not like to accept you while she feels herself your inferior.”

“Inferior! She is perfection,” said Malcolm dreamily, then shook his head and smiled. “No, not perfection, just a darling. Very well, I shall wait--for a little while.”

* * * *

The following morning brought no callers but shortly after luncheon Blount announced Lord Wareham.

At once Mariette was certain that, however adequately she had dealt with previous visitors, she was bound to make a mull of things. The baron had only to look at her with his supercilious eyebrows raised and she would disgrace herself.

She threw a panicked glance at Lord Malcolm. He was regarding her seriously, as if he had guessed how she felt about Lord Wareham. She wished she could tell him about her previous encounter with the man--he’d tease her about it and then she wouldn’t mind any more--but his already poor opinion of Ralph would be confirmed.

“Would it be very shocking,” she whispered to him, “if I went to sit in the morning room?”

“Running away?” he rallied her gently, with an odd note of satisfaction. “I know you to be no coward.”

“I am not, but Ragamuffin can be with me there. He does not like to be banished to the stables when I am in the drawing room.”

“Gammon, he likes to visit the horses, though I’d swear he misses your Sparrow since your groom took him home. Besides, you are too late to escape unseen.”