The Tudor Signet (17 page)

“I shall be more than happy to share anything you choose to share with me, Lady Lilian.”

“Anything, sir?” Lilian glanced up at him, her lips pursed in thought, her eyes sparkling. “Let me see. There are meals to be planned and I simply must deal with my accounts this morning. Then Mrs. Wittering mentioned checking all the tablecloths to see which may be mended and which should be thrown out.”

The captain rose nobly to the occasion. “Madam, I am yours to command.”

“Gallantly spoken, Captain Aldrich. I shall keep you busy, I vow.”

Mariette realized she had missed an opportunity to flirt with Lord Malcolm over their shared orange. Who would have guessed so simple a thing could lead to such a delightful exchange? Perhaps, with the right person at the right moment, any opening might serve.

She looked sideways at Lord Malcolm, who was regarding his sister and his friend with amusement. No, she thought, she’d not try to flirt with him until she had a better idea how to go about it. Failure would be too utterly dispiriting.

* * * *

Both Captain Aldrich and Lilian agreed to the dancing lessons. The carpet in the drawing room was rolled back and Mariette and Emily started to learn the basic country dance steps.

Mariette was stiff and tired quickly, so the first lesson was short, but she enjoyed it. Though at first it was a trifle disconcerting to reach for the captain’s arm to turn or promenade and find it not there, both she and Emily quickly adjusted. As she said to Emily later, “When you go to balls you are bound to meet with partners who don’t know the steps properly. This will give you confidence to carry on as if everything is quite all right.”

Her own confidence grew by leaps and bounds as the day passed. Following Lilian’s example as much as her advice, she made fewer and fewer mistakes, “and never the same one twice,” as Lilian pointed out approvingly. Whenever she found herself at a loss, Lilian or Emily or Lord Malcolm was there to help.

Miss Thorne continued to turn up her nose. This failed to daunt Mariette, since the shrewish companion found fault with everyone, even Lilian. In fact, she seemed still more disgruntled by Captain Aldrich’s presence at Corycombe than by Mariette’s. Mariette overheard her remonstrating with Lilian about her undue familiarity with a mere sea captain.

Lilian continued to smile a great deal and to dress up her grey gowns with colourful shawls and ribbons.

Snow fell on and off all day. In the night the clouds cleared and in the morning the pristine white hills and valley sparkled brilliantly under a frosty sun. Servants swept the terrace to the south of the house to permit the ladies and gentlemen to take the air.

Lord Malcolm was very dubious about allowing Mariette to go out in the icy cold after her illness.

“But I did not take an inflammation of the lungs after lying out on the moor,” she pointed out, “so a stroll on the terrace is not at all likely to harm me.”

Nonetheless, he insisted on bundling her up in a hooded duffel cloak borrowed from one of the maids and a vast woolly muffler from the coachman. Mariette was quite glad when she recalled that the only outdoor clothes she had here were Ralph’s outgrown greatcoat and the antique chapeau-bras she had worn as a highwayman.

Emily found the heaps of swept snow at either end of the terrace irresistible. In no time she had her uncle helping her to build a snowman. Copying Lilian, Mariette wistfully refrained from joining in--after all, Emily was still in the schoolroom.

However, once a hat had been provided for the snowman’s head and Captain Aldrich had thrown the first snowball in an attempt to knock it off, Lilian herself threw the second. After that, Mariette had no qualms about taking the third shot. The snowman was subject to a veritable bombardment which the captain declared worthy of a forty-gun frigate.

In the end it was one of Mariette’s snowballs which knocked off the hat. “Only because you were not really trying,” she accused Lord Malcolm as they all returned pink-cheeked and merry to the house. “Your shots could not possibly have gone so wild if you had aimed properly.”

“My dear,” said Lilian, “I fear you will frequently discover in gentlemen an odious propensity to allow ladies to win.”

“I think it is splendid,” Emily said stoutly.

“No, Emmie, your mama is right, it is odious,” Mariette averred. “It indicates their belief that we cannot win on our own merits. Besides, if it is all a cheat, where is the pleasure of victory?”

“Well, in this case,” said Lord Malcolm, “yours was a good throw and my failure did not necessarily lead to your success. As a matter of fact, I didn’t want to spend all my time putting the dashed hat back on his head.”

“Such modesty!” exclaimed the captain.

“Oh, I’m a modest fellow.” Lord Malcolm grinned. “But I shall remember your words, Miss Bertrand. Beware when I challenge you to a game. I shall give no quarter.”

Mariette laughed. “Then I had best issue the challenge. Since we are not discussing a duel, that will give me the choice of weapons. Do you play backgammon?”

“Yes, but you had best rest awhile before we play, and recruit your strength, for I mean to give you a strenuous time of it.”

The bombardment of the snowman had wearied Mariette a little. She decided to lie down with a book for half an hour. Having finished Cecilia, she asked Blount the way to the library.

In this, at least, Corycombe was no match for Bell-Tor Manor. Before taking up sculpture, Uncle George had been something of a bibliophile with a particular interest in history. His books and those of his predecessors filled ceiling-high shelves on four walls of a large room, overflowing into dusty stacks on chairs and tables.

In Mariette’s eyes, the library at Corycombe scarce merited even the name of book-room. The four matching cabinets were elegant pieces of furniture but each had no more than five or six glass-fronted bookshelves above closed cupboards. Among a preponderance of poetry and novels, there was something for every taste, something to occupy the idle moments of occasional guests, both ladies and gentlemen.

And judging by what Lilian had told Mariette about bluestockings, the volume she chose was undoubtedly intended for the gentlemen.

An hour later, Malcolm ran Mariette to earth. She was curled up on one of the Chippendale settees Lilian considered suitable furniture for a library--at least, they matched the bookcases. Her nose was buried in a book, but as he entered she glanced up, hurriedly closed the volume, and pushed it down behind a cushion. Then she uncurled and fished with her stockinged feet for her slippers.

“Put your feet up again,” Malcolm ordered. “You are supposed to be resting, not demonstrating a ladylike posture.”

“I meant to go up and lie on my bed,” she explained, “but....”

“But?” he asked when she stopped. “You found a book so fascinating you couldn’t put it down? What are you reading?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said uneasily.

“I already know your predilection for Gothick novels, remember.”

“I shall never read another one!”

Amused by her vehemence, he wondered what the deuce she had found in Lilian’s minimal collection to which anyone could possibly take exception. “Come on,” he coaxed. “Let me see it.”

Reluctantly she fished it out from behind the cushion and handed it to him.

“Voltaire’s
Essay on History,
” he read. “Good gad--I beg your pardon--good gracious!”

Mariette looked more defiant than abashed. “Lilian told me ladies are not supposed to care for serious subjects, but I have been wanting to read it this age. The edition at home is in French. I didn’t know it had been translated into English.”

“You don’t read French?”

“Only the easiest bits. Maman stopped teaching me French when she married my step-papa, and I have forgotten a great deal.”

“I expect you could manage with a dictionary.”

“We have Dr. Johnson’s dictionary,” she said uncertainly.

“No, a French-English dictionary, which lists French words and gives their translations. Perhaps lexicon is a better word.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing! I wonder if the book shop in Plymouth might have one.”

“Probably.”

“Do you think it would be very expensive? It would be worth spending my allowance on, though.”

“A few shillings.” When he married her, she should have every book her heart might desire, even if he had to do without his spectacular waistcoats. He must not be precipitate though, and risk frightening her off. “I’m sure Lilian would lend you this Voltaire.”

“There are other French books at home. Besides, I don’t want her to know I am reading it. You won’t tell her, will you?”

“Truth to tell, I’m amazed to find this in her house, and I’d be astonished to learn she had read it. Some guest must have left it by mistake.”

“And you were shocked to find me reading it.”

“Not shocked, surprised. You must admit you have never given me the least hint that you are a bluestocking.”

“Is it so dreadful to be a bluestocking?” Her dark eyes were wistful, appealing. At that moment she could have asked whether it was dreadful to be a cannibal and he’d have heartily denied it.

“Not at all, or only to men afraid to discover that women are as intelligent as themselves.”

“Which must be most men, or Lilian would not have warned me.”

“I daresay,” he agreed ruefully.

“And you?”

Did she just want his opinion, or did she really care what he thought? If he advised her to give up reading history, would she do so, or would he have lost her forever? Did he want her to abandon her studies, to join the ranks of young ladies with nothing on their minds but fashion, gossip, their own sensibilities, and the hunt for a husband?

Heaven forbid!

“There are not so many men with whom one can hold an intelligent conversation,” he said, “that one can afford to exclude women. What do you think of Voltaire’s history so far?”

“Have you read it?” She beamed as he nodded. “Oh, splendid! I have a hundred questions and it may be days before I can ask Uncle George.”

“You must not expect my learning to equal your uncle’s,” he protested, “but let’s see what I can do.”

He found her mixture of historical erudition and worldly naïveté utterly enchanting. Somehow they ended up in a vigorous argument about Elizabeth Tudor and Mary Queen of Scots, Mariette supporting the practical and accomplished Elizabeth, Malcolm the romantic, tragic Mary.

Time passed unnoticed until they were summoned to luncheon.

“We shall have to agree to disagree,” said Mariette, retrieving her slippers.

“What, has my powerful male reasoning not convinced you?”

“Not a bit. You won’t tell Lilian, will you?”

“My lips are sealed. I’ll even smuggle the book up to your chamber for you.”

Laughing, she took his arm. “I am so glad it was you who won Ralph’s ring.”

So was he, or he’d never have met her. And yet, once she learned what use he was making of the sphinx signet.... He had to make her love him before she found out, but he could not in all honour ask her to be his wife until she knew the worst.

* * * *

The weather remained clear and cold, with no sign of a thaw. As the days passed, Mariette recovered her strength--and her energy.

Lilian taught her to bridle her energy, to walk at a decorous pace, to glide up and down stairs instead of running, to gesture with languid grace. Mariette mastered every movement, but she was left with a restless need for vigorous exercise which the dancing lessons only partially appeased.

The servants cleared the worst of the snow from several paths around the house, so she and Lord Malcolm took Ragamuffin out for a run two or three times a day. Sometimes Emily or the captain accompanied them, in which case Mariette strolled with ladylike sloth, leaning on Lord Malcolm’s arm. When they were alone, she matched her stride with his. He did not mind.

One afternoon when they returned to the house, Lilian drew Mariette aside.

“I happened to look out of the window,” she said, “and saw you traipsing along at a great pace. Since we are so isolated at present it scarcely matters here, to be sure, except that it may become a habit.”

“I fear walking fast is already a habit with me, but I am trying to break it, truly.”

Lilian smiled. “I am sure you are, my dear. And you will not forget, when you go home, that riding astride in breeches is not at all the thing?”

“You shall never see me riding astride again,” Mariette promised. She simply must get hold of a side-saddle somehow, so that she could ride to Corycombe. As for her gallops on the moor, Lilian never went up there. Nor did anyone else but shepherds and occasional poachers, neither in the least likely to give her away.

“You are a most satisfactory pupil,” said Lilian. “I doubt there is a great deal more I can teach you. I hope you will come often to Corycombe when the snow melts, nevertheless.”

“If I may. I shall need reminders and practice.”

The trouble was that all the lessons were directed towards proper conduct in company--of which there was none at Bell-Tor Manor--and catching a husband. Even if she ever met other gentlemen, she could not imagine wanting any husband but Lord Malcolm.

As for Ralph, she thought guiltily, her long-held notion of marrying him now appalled her.

Chapter 11

“Blount tells me the path to the orangery is cleared,” Lord Malcolm informed Mariette as Ragamuffin bounded ahead of them down the terrace steps.

“Yes, we ate the last oranges for breakfast today. I doubt they need have dug out the path, though.” She glanced up at the grey sky.

During the morning a west wind had risen, a warm, soft, moist wind, a harbinger of spring. Now the clouds hung heavy overhead. Already melting snow dripped from the eaves and the flagstoned terrace had puddles here and there. Lord Malcolm took her elbow to steer her around a large one.

“It will take a day or two for so much snow to disappear,” he said.

“Not if it rains.”

“You must be eager to go home.”

She could not tell him she wouldn’t mind being snow-bound forever as long as he was there. “I am a little anxious about Ralph and Uncle George,” she said, and found it was true. “Uncle George is quite capable of forgetting to eat if I am not there to remind him. As for Ralph, being stuck at the manor for nigh on a week must have bored him to desperation.”