His brother cast him an amused look, one eyebrow raised quizzically. “You think her plan is sensible?”
Charles sighed and slumped back into his seat. “Damned if I know, brat. I only wanted to help out Gordon’s sister, not risk becoming a tenant for life!”
Harry’s expression softened, and genuine sympathy radiated from his smile. “You did the right thing, old chap. Nothing else you could have done! And even if the worst happens and you do end up leg-shackled, there are worse options than being married into your best friend’s family.”
“I doubt Gordon will feel the same,” he muttered. “He seemed to think Marianne could marry a peer if she wanted to.”
“Overambitious,” said Harry, screwing up his face. "She’s a pretty thing, but very little fashion sense. It’s all frills and furbelows and garishly printed cotton. Not the best dancer, either. Stood on my foot once."
"That was your fault, and you know it," said Charles, momentarily distracted, "and while I agree she tended to wear the more excessive versions of current fashions, they have nothing to do with my hesitation to marry her!"
"Hanging out for a title?" joked Harry.
Charles threw a cushion across the room, hitting his brother square in the chest.
“I’m getting myself a brandy,” he grumbled.
“Do pour me one as well while you’re up,” said Harry, not bothering to move from his own seat. “If it’s acceptable for Aunt Eustacia to drink a glass for luncheon, then who am I to argue?”
There was a brief silence between them, filled only by the loud tick of the carriage clock, the slosh of brandy into the glass, and the distant sound of the servants going about their business.
“It could be worse, you know,” said Harry when Charles pressed the glass into his hand.
“I fail to see how.”
“Father,” explained Harry. He paused to sample the brandy before speaking again. “Were it up to Father, you’d be married by license before you had time to blink, and likely he’d be harassing you to do your familial duty while at it. I swear he was practically giddy with delight when you brought the poor girl in to see us yesterday evening; Lord alone knows what he was thinking of.”
“That’s hardly a mystery: babies,” said Charles darkly.
“Babies,” repeated Harry.
They both shuddered deeply, and then took a long drink of brandy to fortify themselves.
*
It had been late when Marianne awoke, and it had been several minutes before she could place her location. The bedchamber was a bright shade of periwinkle blue, and sunlight had been streaming in from the window, as though a maid had been in to open the curtains.
Then she remembered that the Headleys had refused her a maid for such a purpose, calling it a woeful extravagance even though she paid her own staff and it had not cost them a penny. That must mean, then, that she was no longer with her aunt and cousin, but in an altogether more luxurious location. The memories of the previous day had then come flooding back.
Her escape with Charles. The long drive. The constant fear that Cuthbert was mere steps behind them, ready to kidnap her at any moment. The terror that the Putneys would reject her as a hussy and throw her out into the cold. The very real warmth with which Sir Joseph had greeted her, even before Charles had told his father a single thing. The way Lady Putney had thrown a kindly arm about her shoulders, refused to hear another word of her tangled speeches and insisted that she come to bed and rest.
Then the deep, comforting deep sleep of someone who was no longer afraid of an unlocked bedroom door.
Marianne had not yet arisen from the large canopy bed with its thick feather mattress, instead opting to just enjoy the beauty of her surroundings. The bedroom was large and had been furnished with excellent taste, the delicate work on the wallpaper enough to make any society Lady green with envy. There was an elegant dressing table with matching washstand and a vase of fresh flowers whose scent gently perfumed the air all about her. A silver tray had been placed on the table beside the bed, and a cup of still-warm chocolate was waiting for her alongside some buttered toast. Whoever had looked in on her that morning had been as quiet as a mouse – that, or Marianne had slept deeper than she had for over a year. It was quite possible that both were true.
The borrowed nightgown from Lady Putney was far too big on her thin frame, but she was grateful for the kindness, nonetheless. The cotton was soft against her skin, and it felt almost decadent after the old, scratchy woollen thing that her Aunt had insisted she wear. The lace cap tied over her hair seemed superfluous considering her hair was in terrible condition, but she felt better for having such a simple sign of care than she would ever have thought possible. Even the cup of chocolate tasted like heaven, and for a wild moment, Marianne wondered if she could stay in the bedroom forever where she was safe, fed, and comfortable.
"You are a Hillis," she told herself firmly. “You have no need to hide.”
She drained the last of the chocolate and placed the cup down firmly. After throwing back the covers, she climbed out of the large bed, her feet connecting with an elaborate Turkish rug of extremely fine quality.
She quickly realized that there were no clothes set out for her, not even the old dress she’d worn on her way to the Manor. For a long time she was flummoxed. It was not her home, and she knew there were several gentlemen under the roof, so she could hardly leave the chamber to go searching for her clothes. Equally, it felt presumptuous to ring the bell and summon a servant when she had no money to pay them.
Before she had time to find a solution of her own, there was a brisk knock at the door. It opened wide a moment later, and an unknown woman strode into the room, followed closely by Lady Putney.
“My dear, dear goddaughter!” announced the woman loudly as she strode towards Marianne with outstretched hands. “I shall never forgive myself for the intolerable situation you found yourself in! Please forgive me, dear child, and allow me to make up for my terrible neglect.”
Marianne found herself crushed against the ample bosom of this woman, but the gesture was so kind, so motherly, that she found herself throwing her arms right back around the stranger as though they were long lost friends.
She had a very good idea who it was as well.
“There is nothing to forgive… Mrs Melthwaite,” she said when she was finally released.
The woman gasped and clutched her hands to her heart. She turned a forlorn look upon Lady Putney and gave a loud sob. “She has not forgiven me! She no longer calls me Godmama! Oh, what am I to do?”
Lady Putney, who was struggling to keep a straight face through this performance, pretended to be thoughtful for a moment. “I think you must promise to replace her wardrobe, my dear Eustacia, for until she is properly attired, I cannot blame her for holding a grievance against you.”
“I don’t hold a grievance!” spluttered Marianne. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I am so grateful to you for coming to my rescue!”
“Such a good, sweet-natured girl,” said Mrs Melthwaite, reaching forward to tuck an errant strand of hair back under Marianne’s cap. “My dearest friend is quite right, though. I cannot undo the year you endured, but I can at least do my best to see you turned out in the attire you are used to. Now, come and sit beside me on the bed and tell me everything that happened at the Headley’s home. You will feel better for it, I assure you.”
“But… but I…” Marianne started to protest, even as she was led over to sit back down on the side of the bed.
“We have ordered some food to be sent up for you,” said Lady Putney as she bustled about the room, “and my dressmaker will arrive very soon. I sent John to fetch her here directly, and she will not leave my roof until we have at least one dress ready for you to wear. Ah, and here are my maids, right on time. Wilson, Lizzy, make your bows to Mrs Melthwaite’s goddaughter if you please.”
A tall, lanky woman with a very thin mouth, who Marianne immediately knew was Miss Wilson, ma
de a stiff bow to her before neatly depositing a pile of printed cotton and plain muslins onto the end of the bed. “I have brought you some materials that my Lady had about the house, Miss Hillis. I think the blue will be a very good colour on you if you will let me make you up a day dress.”
“Of course she will,” said Lady Putney with a fond smile at who was obviously her personal maid. “You have the neatest hand of anyone, dear Wilson, and it is an honour to have something made by you.”
“But you must not put yourself to any trouble,” blurted out Marianne. “If… if you would help me with the cutting, then I can sew together the thing myself so that you can dedicate yourself to Lady Putney.”
“It’s no trouble, Miss,” said Wilson, and Marianne had the odd sensation of having passed some kind of test. “This is my niece, Lizzie. She has hopes to be a lady’s maid one day, so if you will forgive my presumption, I suggested to my Lady that the girl could serve you until you have the opportunity to hire someone to better suit your needs.”
The young girl in question, hardly more than seventeen years old, bobbed a curtsey and grinned like they were schoolgirls together.
“I’ve brought you some lace, some buttons and all sorts of fripperies, Miss Hillis. I am also very good at trimming bonnets, as her Ladyship will attest.”
“Lizzie,” snapped Miss Wilson sharply, causing the girl to blush.
Lady Putney, however, put a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Lizzie is indeed very talented when it comes to bonnets, and reticules too, I might add!”
“Then we will deal together famously, I’m sure,” said Marianne, smiling at Lizzie with the hope that she put the girl at ease. “I must confess that I’m not very well informed when it comes to ribbons and things. I swear my dressmaker in London just added as many as she could to push up the price of my gowns.”
“I will never allow that to happen, Miss Hillis! I swear!” said Lizzie as solemn as a knight taking his oath.
Lady Putney looked as though she were about to laugh and had turned to busy herself with the different materials brought in by Miss Wilson. Marianne longed to ask her what was so amusing, but her attention was claimed by Mrs Melthwaite, who did not strike her as the type of woman who could be ignored.
“Was it very terrible, the way your aunt treated you?” said Mrs Melthwaite, her tone conciliatory. “When my dear Charles told me that she had stolen all your fine dresses, even the ones I had made for you at Michaelmas, I have never felt so guilty in all my life! I should have listened to my heart all those months ago when I just knew something wasn’t right in that house!”
Marianne blinked, wondering if this was how Charles had felt when she’d made up those silly stories in front of the Headleys.
“It was my favourite dress too, dear Godmama,” she replied, promising herself that she would apologise to Charles at the earliest opportunity. “But Aunt Headley read all my letters, you see, so I could not send you word that I was in need of rescue.”
That final piece of truth stuck in her throat, and it was all she could do not to sob.
“I will buy you three new gowns that are ten times as pretty,” declared Mrs Melthwaite, but the ways her eyes roved over Marianne’s face showed that her understanding went deeper than an interest in fripperies. “Now, you must tell me truthfully, child. Did they hurt you?”
The question caught her off guard, and she felt her spine stiffen of its own accord. She glanced over at Miss Wilson and Lizzie, who were both very intently arranging the cotton and muslins with a degree of precision that was completely unnecessary.
She caught Lady Putney’s eye. That good woman graced her with a kindly smile and an almost imperceptible nod. She turned back to look at Mrs Melthwaite, whose expression had shifted from inquisitive to concerned.
“No… well, no more than one would expect from an aunt and cousin who believe their charge to be possessed of too strong a spirit,” she said as cheerfully as she could manage. Besides, complaining of having her ears boxed or her cheek pinched seemed childish, for neither had hurt more than her pride at the time. “Cousin Cuthbert joked once or twice that I needed to be brought to bridle, but they never whipped me, or beat me.”
“I see,” said Mrs Melthwaite, and Marianne felt a wave of alarm crash over her.
“I’m not saying that I wasn’t in need of rescue, Godmama! Quite the opposite! It’s just so hard to explain because when I try to remember exactly what happened each day, it all sounds so trivial. Like taking my favourite dress away to be taken in, only it was never returned. Or saying that I had grown too plump, so could not have custard tarts even though they would eat a plateful of them in front of me. Aunt Headley said she was determined to keep me safe, and that was her reason for not letting me walk about on my own, even just in the garden, and Cuthbert swore it was an accident when he smashed my paint box, and could not buy me a replacement until he could find something of better quality.”
“Which he never did find,” said Mrs Melthwaite softly, sharing a very speaking look with Lady Putney.
“Thank you Wilson, Lizzie; please go and wait for the dressmaker downstairs, and bring her directly to the room on her arrival,” said her hostess, and the two maids left quietly. They did, however, take a moment to look at Marianne directly, and while Lizzie had looked at her like she was witnessing the demise of a tragic heroine, Miss Wilson had looked genuinely sympathetic.
Lady Putney closed over the door, and Marianne felt her cheeks burn with shame.
“You must think me very ungrateful, or very stupid, but I really do feel like they were trying to break my spirit. I was so isolated, and whenever I made them cross, they would just take away the things I enjoyed, or ignore my presence if I tried to make a fuss. Cuthbert wasn’t even bothering to hide the fact they planned to marry me off to him, but I don’t care what my Aunt believes – we did not suit in the least.”
“You are neither stupid nor ungrateful,” said Lady Putney, coming to sit on the bed so that Marianne was between the comforting presence of both ladies.
“I think it very clever of you to have devised a means of escape,” added Mrs Melthwaite. “But you must tell us everything, Marianne. Absolutely everything from the moment your brother left up until Charles rescued you.”
“Must I?” she asked, her voice trembling at the mere thought of unlocking all those memories.
“I’m afraid so; we must know the character of these relatives if we are to protect you from them, and we must be sure that everyone who could contradict our story about you being my goddaughter has been accounted for,” said Mrs Melthwaite firmly.
“It will feel better having us to reassure you that what happened truly was terrible and not in your imagination,” added Lady Putney, reaching over to give her hand a squeeze. “Our minds like to play tricks sometimes and convince us that people and events weren’t so bad once we are safe from them. But it was bad, and they did try to harm you. You’re not alone anymore, child. You have us now.”
Whether it was the arm of Mrs Melthwaite about her shoulder or the comforting pat of Lady Putney upon her knee, Marianne was afterwards unable to say. She started to speak with the intention of giving them only the most pertinent details of her stay in Shropshire, but within minutes found everything tumbling out, every little cut and barb she had endured, every cruel comment and missing possession, even up to having her embroidery taken away shortly before Charles arrived.
“And the stupid thing is that I didn’t even like embroidery at first,” she said, half crying and half exasperated. “It was only because I imagined it was Cuthbert’s face that I was driving the needle into over and over again that I found it so enjoyable.”
“The ability to effectively wield a needle or pin is an important skill for any young lady to learn,” said Mrs Melthwaite with approval. “As I explained to my daughters, it never hurts to have a weapon on hand around men, and the patience to use it repeatedly if necessary.”
Marianne spl
uttered a laugh of surprise and took the handkerchief that her new godmother offered to her with a smile.
“The one positive to your isolation, I suppose, is that there is no one from the Headley’s circle who knows you well enough to know that Eustacia isn’t your godmother,” mused Lady Putney. “What about your friends from London and from your school days?”
“I did receive an occasional gift from my real godmother, who I am fond of,” said Marianne, trying to think if she’d ever mentioned Mrs Colby by name, “but we have not been in touch very often since she removed to the Russian Court. She says she likes the cold there. I don’t think anyone ever met her, though, for she dislikes London society and modern sensibilities excessively.”
“Perfect, we can pretend I was your godmother all along. If anyone ever does query why your Godmama isn’t in Russia, you just tell them it’s the other one, and I’m your favourite,” said Mrs Melthwaite with a smile as she squeezed Marianne’s hand.
“But why would anyone be interested in my godparents?” asked Marianne, a little perplexed. “I only need to live quietly until Gordon returns, after all, so none of the local gentry need to know of me.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, for your best defence against the Headleys is to be widely seen and appreciated, so that any absence would be of serious note,” said Lady Putney. “Hear us out, Marianne! You might not like it, but I’m afraid that it is the only way. You’re going to have to pretend that Charles is courting you, and attend every rout, ball and party I can get invitations for.”
Her complaints and objections were ruthlessly thrust aside as the two older women laid out their plans for Marianne until her brother returned to England. While they understood her reluctance, her safety was their greatest concern. While they both felt strongly that she was not in danger while at the Manor, both her reputation and that of the Putney brothers must be upheld, and that meant venturing out into local society.
It was all so so very sensible and reasonable, but then so many of Cousin Cuthbert’s pronouncements had seemed to make sense that she no longer felt able to trust her own heart. She fell back on old habits and simply stopped listening to the words being spoken at her and retreated to the safety of her own thoughts. These quickly found Charles, and she wondered if he was already regretting coming to her rescue.
Anything but Love (The Putney Brothers Book 1) Page 7