The Tudor Signet (7 page)

He transferred Miss Bertram to Jessup’s arms, took off his top-coat, and folded it into a pillow. Mounting the well-trained mare, he placed the pillow in front of him. Jessup passed the girl up. Malcolm needed both arms to hold her so that her lower back rather than her rump rested on the makeshift cushion.

Perhaps sheer embarrassment drove her to run off, he thought. Of all the places to be shot!

“You’ll have to lead Incognita,” he said to the groom. “Ride as fast as you consider safe. It’s more important to get her to warmth than to avoid jolting.” Shivering himself, he could only hope he was right.

As Jessup mounted the cob, Miss Bertrand whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He smiled down into those great brown eyes. “Little goosecap,” he said tenderly. She needed someone to protect her from the world, and from herself.

“I wanted to take Ralph his ring.”

“I shall send a groom with it today, I promise.”

At that moment, Malcolm knew for certain he wanted to win her indomitable loyalty for himself.

* * * *

Twelve paces from one end of the drawing room to the other. Twelve paces back again. That damned Clementi sonatina was driving him mad, Emily practising the same passage over and over accompanied by the click of Miss Thorne’s knitting needles. But if he went elsewhere, he’d either have less room to pace or he’d be wandering the corridors like an unhappy ghost. He could not sit still while the doctor was with Miss Bertrand.

“I fear you will wear a path in the carpet, Lord Malcolm,” Miss Thorne reproved him without a pause in her endless knitting of endless lengths of mustard wool. Distracted for a moment, Malcolm pitied the deserving-poor recipients of her charitable diligence.

The Clementi stopped in the middle of a phrase. “Never mind, Uncle. The carpet is already sadly worn and Mama has been saying this age that she means to replace it.”

“Your mama told you to practise your music, Emily,” Miss Thorne said sharply.

“Yes, ma’am.” Emily obediently turned back to the pianoforte.

“Sing us a song,” Malcolm suggested in desperation.

Emily hunted through her sheet music. “Here, this is a pretty one.” She struck a few preliminary chords and warbled soulfully:

 “‘Come away, come away, death,

 “‘And in sad cypress let me be laid;

 “‘Fly away,...’“

“For pity’s sake, not that! Not now.”

“But it is about a gentleman dying, not a lady. Only listen:

 ‘I am slain by a fair cruel maid.’

So it must be a man singing, must it not?”

“Pray do not argue, Emily,” said Miss Thorne. “You will beg your uncle’s pardon at once.”

“That is not necessary.” Malcolm ran his hand through his hair, a shocking gesture for one who claimed to be a dandy, and one which would have appalled his valet. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, Emmie. It’s just that I am dev...extremely anxious about Miss Bertrand.”

Emily clasped her hands. “She is not really going to die, is she?”

“We must pray that Miss Bertrand will recover,” Miss Thorne pronounced, “but any young person who goes racketing about the countryside utterly heedless of propriety must expect to bear the consequences.”

“Propriety be damned! She’s suffering from exposure to the cold, not lack of propriety!”

Emily’s shocked glee more than Miss Thorne’s affronted sniff made him regret his own lapse from decorum. He was about to apologize for his language, if not the sentiment, when Lilian came in. Eagerly he went to meet her.

“What does he say?”

“He fears she may develop an inflammation of the lungs, Malcolm. She must be watched constantly lest she grow feverish or start to cough. For the present she is resting as comfortably as may be expected.”

“Thank heaven your Miss Pennick had prepared for a hot bath and warmed her bed before we got back, as well as sending for Dr. Barley.”

“Pennick takes a great deal too much upon herself,” Miss Thorne observed with another sniff.

“Jenny is a gem, Cousin Tabitha,” Lilian contradicted, her voice gentle but her lips tightening. “I cannot think how I should go on without her.”

“You are excessively indulgent, Lilian. It never answers.”

Emily started up, obviously ready to take up cudgels, but she subsided at a glance from her mother. “Mama, may I help to watch Miss Bertrand.”

“No, my dear, but I am glad you offered. Malcolm, I must speak with you. Will you come to the morning room?”

The green, white, and gold room was bright with wintry sunshine. Lilian sank with slightly weary grace onto a chair by the fire. Malcolm stood for a moment looking down at her.

“You will not let that woman watch Miss Bertrand!” he said angrily. “She’s more likely to drive her into a decline than to aid her recovery.”

“Cousin Tabitha? Do stop hovering over me like an avenging Fury, Malcolm, and sit down. No, I shall not ask her to help. She would only do so in a spirit of grudging martyrdom.”

“I cannot imagine why you put up with her.”

“When Frederick died, Mama insisted that I must have someone to lend me countenance. It came down to a choice of Tabitha Thorne--she is Frederick’s cousin, you know, not ours--”

“Thank heaven!”

“...Or Aunt Wilhelmina.”

“Good Lord, what a choice. I’m not sure I wouldn’t prefer Aunt W., though.”

“Once I had asked Cousin Tabitha to come and live at Corycombe, it became impossible to send her away. She has been saying for years that she only stays to oblige and her brother wants her to keep house for him, but when I suggest his claim is the greater....” She sighed.

“You are too soft-hearted.”

“That is what she says,” Lilian pointed out crossly. “She reprimanded me as though I were still in the schoolroom for taking Miss Bertrand in. Now I shall have to endure a lecture on my folly in taking her back when she clearly wishes to go home. Malcolm, do you know why she ran off?”

“No.” He could not speak of Miss Bertrand’s desire to return the ring to her cousin without inviting a host of further questions impossible to answer.

“I pray it was not I who drove her away. She said one or two odd things--nothing so very dreadful, as I should know who have five brothers! But I fear I failed to hide my dismay. I behaved just like Cousin Tabitha, in fact! I shall never forgive myself if Miss Bertrand left because she felt unwelcome.”

“You are incapable of behaving like Cousin Tabitha! I wager your dismay was nought but a fleeting expression, not a regular Bill of Attainder. It’s more likely to be my fault. Considering the...unfortunate circumstances of our first encounter, no doubt she was simply overwhelmed with embarrassment at the prospect of seeing me again.” Malcolm made the suggestion to comfort Lilian, but he was suddenly horribly afraid it might be true.

“Fustian! Your fault, for saving her life? Twice now! Her chief emotion must be gratitude.”

“Come now, Lilian, you must own she has cause for embarrassment. Any virtuous female of the slightest sensibility must be mortified to know a gentleman has made himself familiar with her--”

“Malcolm! My dear, spare my blushes. You are right, of course, and I do believe Miss Bertrand to be virtuous and not without sensibility. Yet she agreed to see you last night. You did not give her further cause for awkwardness?”

“Certainly not. She talked freely, argued with me in fact!” He smiled, remembering her spirited defence, her insistence on paying for the ring. “She must have had some other reason for running off in the middle of the night without a word. I daresay she was muddled by the laudanum. What on earth was that pink garment she had on under her coat?”

“Mrs. Wittering’s best dressing gown.”

“Mrs. Wittering’s!” Malcolm tried to imagine the stout housekeeper in pink quilted satin instead of her usual black.

“Mine and Emmie’s are too small and I will not ask Cousin Tabitha after the fuss she made over lending a nightgown, let alone helping me dress her in it.” Lilian frowned in thought. “Mrs. Wittering lent her dressing gown gladly so perhaps she will not mind sitting with Miss Bertrand sometimes, though it is hardly part of her duties. I offered to send to the Manor for Miss Bertrand’s abigail but the poor girl has none.”

“You will be short-handed with neither Miss Thorne nor Emily to help. I shall take my turn.”

“My dear brother, even without considering--in your own words--the unfortunate circumstances of your first encounter, absolutely not!”

“I hope to marry her, Lilian,” Malcolm said quietly.

Lilian’s jaw dropped. “B-but you hardly know her!”

“I know her well enough to admire her courage, her spirit, her...” He must not speak of her loyalty to her cousin. “Her beauty. Well enough to know my mind.”

“Oh, Mama is constantly writing to tell me you are in love again,” Lilian recalled with obvious relief.

“I can’t deny I have often admired a pretty face, but never to the point of wishing to see it over breakfast every morning for the rest of my life!”

“You don’t believe you have compromised her, do you, Malcolm? Because of the unfortunate way you met?”

“No! Padgett will not talk. Jessup saw nothing. Dr. Barley is bound by professional discretion and you told me Jenny Pennick and Miss Thorne will keep their mouths closed.”

“Whatever her faults, Cousin Tabitha is no tattlemonger. Surely Miss Bertrand is unlikely to broadcast her misfortune. Yes, I daresay you are safe. You are not obliged to marry her.”

“It’s not a matter of obligation. I
wish
to marry her.”

“Indeed, Malcolm, she is not at all a suitable bride for an Eden.”

“Her birth is good enough,” he argued. “You said yourself her father was a count or viscount. Etiquette can be learned. As for lack of fortune, that is no one’s business but my own. My income may be modest but I can afford to support a wife who considers a library subscription to be an extravagance!”

“No, does she? Poor child! All the same, Mama and Father will be appalled when they hear--”

“Don’t tell the family. They will only brush it off as my latest diverting start,” he said bitterly.

As a child ten years younger than his nearest brother, he had grown accustomed perforce to seeing his every attempt at emulation greeted with indulgent amusement. He had done well at Harrow, but not quite as well as Reggie academically or Peter at sports. Reggie was now a Dean at Canterbury, Peter a Brigadier, James Ambassador to some obscure Balkan kingdom: in the Church, the Army, or the Diplomatic Service, Malcolm would always be a poor second. And Radford, of course, was heir to a marquisate, to their father’s title and lands--admittedly an honour to which Malcolm did not aspire.

His present occupation was not one about which he was able to boast to the family, which was one of its attractions. Whatever he did they would not take seriously. He could marry a royal princess and he’d still be the runt of the litter, so why should he not please himself?

Miss Bertrand was the wife for him. Miss Bertrand? “Dash it, I don’t know her christian name! Blount said Miss...Marie?”

“Mariette,” Lilian corrected him distractedly.

“Mariette.” He savoured the word, then looked up at the ceiling. “Mariette,” he said softly, “you must get well quickly, for I mean to woo and win you!”

Chapter 5

“Captain Aldrich, my lady.” Blount stood aside and the captain stepped into the drawing room. He wore unobtrusive riding clothes, not his uniform, Malcolm noted with approval. His visit to Corycombe was not exactly a secret but there was no sense drawing attention to it.

Malcolm went to meet him and shook his hand. “Good to see you again, Des. Lilian, allow me to present Captain Desmond Aldrich. I fagged for Des at Harrow and he’s never let me forget it.”

Hearing Lilian’s sharply indrawn breath, Malcolm wondered if he should have warned her about the captain’s empty sleeve. However, she rose with her usual graceful composure and held out her hand.

“Welcome to Corycombe, Captain Aldrich.”

“My lady.” Des flushed slightly as he bowed over her hand. “Your pardon for intruding, ma’am. I asked for your brother but the butler--”

“Blount was instructed to show you in here, captain. You are just in time to join us for dinner.”

His flush deepened. “I thought I had come early enough to complete our business and be gone before you dined. I’m not dressed for company.”

“We keep country hours, sir. We expected you to dine with us, though Malcolm was uncertain just when you would arrive. And if I have no quarrel to your dress, I am sure Cousin Tabitha and Emily do not. May I present you to Miss Thorne? And this is my daughter.”

Miss Thorne’s expression made it plain that she strongly objected to the captain’s dress, and probably to his presence. Her nod was frigid.

Emmie made a most presentable curtsy. “How do you do, sir,” she said breathlessly. Far too shy and too well-brought-up to enquire about his missing arm, she was nonetheless obviously dying to ask. Her uncle diagnosed an incipient case of hero worship.

“Miss Thorne, Miss Farrar.” Even as he bowed, Des stared at Emily. He turned to Lilian. “Your daughter?”

It was Lilian’s turn to blush. “Yes, captain.”

“Impossible!” he said with conviction.

Though Des was Malcolm’s elder by a mere four years, his life at sea had weathered his thin face and he looked older than the youthful Lady Lilian. With a becoming pink in her cheeks, she appeared younger than ever. Malcolm suspected the sailor’s blunt disbelief pleased her more than any number of polished compliments. His sincerity was unmistakable.

Blount came back to announce dinner. Lilian beckoned to him and spoke briefly in an undertone. “Certainly, my lady,” he said and departed with rather more haste than was quite proper in a very proper butler of his age and dignity.

The captain gallantly offered Lilian his only arm, Malcolm gave his two to Miss Thorne and Emily, and they proceeded to the dining room. In such a small company conversation was general. The inevitable topic was Miss Bertrand’s “accident.”

“The lady has my deepest sympathy,” Des said when he heard the story--with the tactful omission of the precise part of her anatomy which had been peppered. “A painful business!”