In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess

by Hazel Linwood

  “My mother is resting,” she said lightly. “In which case, you might like to inform my mother that I have had a very enlightening discussion with Mr. Lessing, the conclusion of which was that she needs very urgently to get out of bed.”

  “What is it, Mrs. Lister?” her mother’s voice said weakly from the room. “Who is there?”

  Martha held Mrs. Lister’s gray gaze. “Go and tell her,” she said softly. “Say exactly what I just said. She will know what I mean. And I think you do, too.”

  “My Lady, now, have a care…” the woman began. Martha saw her face drain of color. Her back stiffened and she wondered what her expression looked like, because Mrs. Lister took a step backwards. “I’ll be a minute,” she said.

  Good.

  Martha was surprised that she felt no emotion, not even a grim satisfaction at seeing the woman so hastily do as she said. She felt too empty inside even to enjoy the expression on her face.

  After a brief discussion, which she could not overhear, she heard the door open a fraction further, and her mother’s voice called out to her. It still sounded thin and weak and Martha felt a flush of real anger.

  “Daughter? You wish to speak with me?”

  “No,” Martha said plainly, and walked into the room. She stared down at the dressing table, where her mother sat on the chair. “No, I don’t want to talk. I want you to admit to me that you have been telling a lie.” She fixed her with a cold stare.

  Her mother’s expression changed. She stood up. “Now, Martha! What do you think you’re saying? What…what manner of lie?” she asked, and Martha saw her try to recover her equanimity.

  “You know all too well what lie I mean,” she said, suddenly losing her patience. “You know that this illness of yours has all been an elaborate sham.”

  “Martha!” her mother stared at her. Her expression was aghast, but Martha thought she could read something else beneath that—confusion, maybe, and fear.

  You know what you have done, and you also know that now your power over me is dissolved.

  She held her mother’s gaze. “You pretended your fit of apoplexy,” she said. “I don’t know at what stage you decided that your little distraction gave you the means to have power over us, but at some point you elected to continue the pretense. Why not, when every little twitch or cough had Amelia rolled in a ball of abject shame and pain? Why not, when every gasp or haggard glance made me twist and start with fear like a falcon in jesses?”

  She was shouting now, and she couldn’t hold it back. The full horror of what her mother had done was crashing into her with all its awful potency. It had been like a terrible spell, this net of guilt, duty, and shame the Countess had woven around her and Amelia. And now it was broken and the mighty sorcerer who made them dance and twist to her tune was shown to be a small and shabby conjurer. Martha felt sick. She felt betrayed.

  “Martha!” her mother whispered, sounding horrified. Her thin face was white, her eyes huge.

  Martha looked at her mother, running out of breath. She felt no compassion, only a cold anger. “You did that,” she said. “And don’t try to lie to me.”

  “Martha.” her mother said again. “How can you say that? How can you…I…Oh.” she sobbed, and sat down at the dressing table. Mrs. Lister was in the doorway, but Martha looked at her and she backed out.

  They were alone in the room.

  Martha waited while her mother sat there. She tried to understand what she was seeing, but her expressions were too complex to read. She saw anger, pain, shock, and fear. She watched her and knew that, even now, her first thought must be to try and wriggle her way out of it, to try once more to exert her power over Martha. That was all that mattered to her. More than truth. More than her heart.

  “I thought I was doing the best for you,” her mother whispered. “I really thought that. And now…now that this foolish, selfish boy comes into the valley, and causes…”

  “Don’t you dare speak a word against him,” Martha shouted. “Nicholas Garston is not responsible for any of this. The only person to blame for your actions is you.”

  Her mother slumped forward. Martha was again surprised by the fact that she felt no pity, and then, on reflection, she was not so surprised. Her mother had twisted her pity, made it into a mire that bound her feet and silenced her words. She did not think she would be able to feel pity for a very long time.

  After a long moment, her mother spoke. “Yes, I lied. If you know that, it is because one of those two—Lister or the physician—told you. I will not tell you any more lies.”

  “Good,” Martha said. “You do not deny that you did this? And that you did it to manipulate and maneuver us?”

  “Martha, I did it only for your good,” her mother said. Her voice was raised and Martha cut across it sharply.

  “You have never done anything for anyone’s good! You lie, cheat, and distort the truth, so that people dance to your tune. You wouldn’t know what it meant to do something for anyone’s good,” she shouted.

  Her mother had stood up again, and her face was flushed, eyes bright. Martha had a moment’s fear that she had gone too far—that their mother really would fall ill as a result of her action—and, as she drew breath to shout back, a voice called from outside the door.

  “Martha? Are you in there? Why is everyone shouting?”

  “Amelia!” Martha called, heart beating. “Sister, we’re fine.”

  Her mother looked at her, and Martha didn’t know what to say. She knew that she didn’t want to distress Amelia, but she also knew that she wanted Amelia to know exactly what had happened. She hesitated, unsure of what to do next. Before she could take any action, however, the door opened and Amelia came in.

  “Martha?” she said, and stood next to her, eyes round. “Mother. What is going on?”

  Martha took a deep breath. Their mother stepped back and sat down on the bed. She had looked ready to fight, but now she looked oddly defeated. Martha looked at Amelia, who was standing in the doorway, fair hair in ringlets and tied with ribbons, a perplexed frown on her brow.

  “Mother hasn’t been ill,” Martha said tiredly. “She has been acting ill in order to persuade us out of our choices. She wanted to use our guilt to keep us in thrall to her. She has herself said this is true.”

  “Mother!” Amelia covered her mouth with her hands. Her dark eyes filled with tears. “No! Mother…how could you? Why? What did you do that for?”

  Martha looked at their mother. For the first time, she thought she saw a change of her expression—from angry and defiant, it went briefly sorrowful. For the first time that morning she felt a flicker of compassion for her.

  She can at least regret the pain she has caused Amelia.

  She looked back at her mother, and then went to put a hand on Amelia’s shoulder. She was sitting on the bed, tears running down her pale face.

  “Amelia really was sick,” she told their mother harshly. “You could have hurt her with your dangerous pretense. But you didn’t care, did you? You only cared for the power you could wield.”

  Amelia started crying again, and Martha took her hand and held it in her own. She heard a noise from the dressing table and she shot her mother a look of pure anger. She was surprised when she stood up and went soundlessly to the dressing room next door. Martha looked down at her sister.

  “Amelia…will you go to your room? I’ll come with you. We can get some tea and talk together. We have a lot to discuss.”

  Amelia sniffed and looked up at her sadly. “Yes, Martha,” she said softly. “I’ll come up directly. I can’t believe she would do something like that. I can’t believe it.”

  Martha felt the same way. She didn’t say anything, though—there had been more than enough anger and shouting for one morning. She felt sickened by it. She bent her arm at the elbow and Amelia linked arms with her and together they went up to the floor where their bedrooms were.

  When Amelia was seated on her bed, Martha rang for her maid to bring
them tea. She and Amelia sat and looked at each other silently.

  “This is very grave,” Amelia said after a long moment. “I would never have thought Mother would do that. Never…” she shook her head, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “I wish Alton was here.” She blinked her dark eyes, red-rimmed with her tears.

  Martha nodded. “Yes. I think we should send to Gracefield manor and ask him to come here. I would feel better knowing he was here.”

  “Thank you, Martha. That would be good,” Amelia said softly.

  Martha sat down in the chair by the desk. Rochelle brought tea and a small bowl of dainties and put them silently on the dressing table. Neither of them touched the tea. Martha felt too weary, as if she’d never have the energy to do anything again.

  After a long moment, Amelia reached for the teapot. She poured them both a cup of tea and paused to stir a lump of sugar into her own.

  “Well, now that we know,” she said softly, “it seems that it is a good thing, after all. We are both free,” she said.

  Martha looked up from where her head rested in her cupped palms. She stared, and realized that Amelia spoke true. She was right—the one thing that had been standing between them and all they wished for had been their mother’s illness. Now that it was proved to be a lie, they were both free to do as they wanted, to marry the man they had each chosen for themselves.

  Martha felt her cheeks lift in a smile. She was too weary to be anything but exhausted right now, but the thought touched her heart and she knew that it was something that made her delighted.

  “You’re right,” she said softly. “We are free now.”

  She grinned at Amelia, who nodded back. “Drink some tea,” she said gently. “And then go and lie down awhile. I’ll see you at luncheon.”

  Martha smiled. She was very weary, and she did as she was told. She finished a cup of tea with sugar, then left Amelia’s bedchamber and went into her own. She hadn’t intended to sleep, but as soon as she lay down, exhaustion claimed her and her eyelids drooped, her body aching as if she had ridden all day through fields.

  Her last thought before she fell into a deep, healing rest was that Amelia was right. They were free. There was no reason for her not to do exactly as she wished. She fell asleep with that thought foremost in her mind.

  Chapter 31

  Nicholas stood in the doorway of the house he had left last week. Already, it seemed strange, like a coat he had worn ten years ago, one he had outgrown.

  His mind drifted to Martha, and he hoped that she was safe. He did not want to imagine her confronting Lady Weston and he wished he could be there to help, but she had wished to do it alone—and he had his own confronting to do.

  I need to tell Father that I will no longer keep the agreement he has made.

  “My Lord!” Radford said as he opened the door, distracting Nicholas. His usually grave face looked astonished. Nicholas realized just how long he’d been away and how the staff must have been wondering where he’d been.

  “Greetings, Radford,” Nicholas said tiredly, too weary to even feel touched by the man’s delight at seeing him. “Would you let me in, please? And tell my father I wish to speak with him.”

  He heard the man’s footsteps on the stairs. Why was he so tired? It felt as if the confrontation with the physician had stolen every drop of his vitality. Besides his father, he couldn’t recall having a conflict like that with anyone else in his life.

  “My Lord?” the butler said. Nicholas stood up and stepped into the hallway. “Your father is in his study, when you wish to see him.”

  “Thank you,” Nicholas nodded. He walked up the stairs. As he did so, he thought the whole house looked as if it had become smaller somehow. It had seemed grand and imposing when first they entered it, but now it seemed slightly threadbare to his eyes, small and cramped.

  He went into his bedroom and sat down on the bed, tugging off his riding boots and replacing them with indoor shoes. His other shoes were at his uncle’s home, brought there by Wycliffe.

  He knew his father was waiting for him, but he did not particularly wish to rush to his command. His father would be expecting that, and he didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. He took his time, changing his shirt and cleaning himself from the long ride. He was amazed by how instantly restored it made him feel. Once he had finished, he headed up the stairs to his father’s office.

  The Duke was seated at his desk, his dark-haired head bowed over a paper. He seemed utterly focused on what he did, and Nicholas felt the sting of that for a moment. He wondered if his father was doing it on purpose, and then knew he must be, when his father spoke.

  “You’re here to tell me that you’re not interested in doing what I say, eh?” There was no bitterness or anger in that voice. Rather, it sounded cheerful and mocking.

  Nicholas wished he hadn’t given his father any warning of his arrival. He had given the man a chance to assemble an arsenal, and every word was going to be designed to wound and cause pain.

  “You are right,” he said, deciding the truth was his best armor. “I do wish to say that, yes.”

  His father looked up, setting aside his quill at the inkwell. He didn’t look angry, either—his face was calm. Only his dark eyes showed his terrible inner cruelty, waiting to be used.

  “Fine,” his father said.

  Nicholas frowned. He felt bewildered. Why was his father taking this so calmly?

  “Father,” he began, clearing his throat. “Your assumption is correct. I came back to tell you that I can no longer obey your wishes in this matter. My heart is my own, and it belongs only to Lady Martha. You cannot persuade or overrule me in this choice.”

  His father nodded. “Fine,” he said again, and he even seemed to smile. “You have made a pretty speech. And I wish you joy of it. But I warn you, son, that you are being stupid. Not that I should be surprised by that, mind.”

  Here we are. He’ll threaten and insult and belittle me, without realizing that I no longer care for his opinion.

  That was his secret now—the fact that nothing his father could say really mattered anymore. He stood with a neutral expression on his face, waiting for the onslaught of insults and name-calling.

  To his surprise, nothing happened. His father merely leaned back in his chair again and resumed writing in his ledger. Nicholas couldn’t help the fact that the reaction puzzled him and engaged his interest. In this, his father knew him too well.

  “Call me stupid, if you will—it makes no difference to me,” he said. “But why do you say this choice is stupid? I see nothing stupid about it.” He felt genuinely perplexed by that.

  His father frowned up at him. “Why do you care what I think?” he asked. “I have already said that you are free to do as you wish. I just warn you not to come to me with the consequences of your actions. And there will be consequences, I tell you that right now. Consequences—harsh ones—and those for the one you profess to love.”

  Nicholas stared at him. That was a threat, barely covered. The look on his father’s face said what the words did not. His blood went cold.

  “What consequences? Of what actions? If you know anything that could harm Lady Martha, I charge you to tell me at once!”

  His father just looked at him. Nicholas could see the spark of humor in his eyes and he hated the fact that, somehow, his father had one last card to play and he had somehow played right into his hands.

  They regarded each other for a long moment. Nicholas could see that satisfied look on his father’s face—he was loving the fact that the doubt tormented his son. Nicholas knew that he would be able to get no more out of him right now. He turned around to walk out.

  “I know of something, yes. You might find out what,” his father said lightly to his retreating back. “But remember…fell things can happen to the best people.”

  Nicholas stopped dead at the last words.

  “What do you mean?” he said quietly, heart beating with rising horror. “Is Martha in
danger…? Tell me!”

  Suddenly, all his self-control had snapped, brought about by that one easy sentence.

  His father laughed. Nicholas felt the sound crawl over his skin. He lifted his hand off the desk and stepped back.

  “No need to shout at me,” his father said lightly. “I said nothing but the truth—bad things happen to everyone. Now, I suppose, you are going to run off to your uncle’s house, eh? You always did favor his side of the family.” He sniffed lightly and his eyes were hard.

  Nicholas looked at his father and he saw him as if for the first time—grasping, mean, empty. He felt nothing for his son, clearly—nothing at all.

  “I will go to stay with my uncle, yes,” Nicholas said lightly. “If you wish to reach me, you must send for me there.”