How to Cross a Marquess

by Jane Ashford

  They started back, John hunched on the seat beside Fenella as if awaiting a blow. As the minutes passed without a word, he slowly straightened. “Aren’t you going to scold me?” he asked finally.

  “You seem to have a good sense of what you did wrong,” Fenella replied.

  “Yes, but it was idiotic, to go out onto the sand. Tom said I shouldn’t.”

  “He was right.”

  “And I did it anyway. Like a fool.”

  “You seem to be sorry,” Fenella said, while she thought that being a parent was a more complicated task than she’d previously realized.

  “I am! Dreadfully sorry.”

  “Would you be sorrier if I scolded you?”

  John considered this novel idea. “I don’t think I would be,” he said finally. “Perhaps I would feel worse.”

  “If I talked to you about how I had given you a good deal of freedom, and you had let me down? And about how you might have gotten Tom killed?”

  John hunched lower again. “Yes. Then.”

  She couldn’t bring herself to rail at a child who seemed so full of regret. “Well, we will take those points as understood then. Be sure you remember them.”

  He gaped at her. “You aren’t going to punish me?”

  “Oh, I’m certainly going to do that. You are now confined to the house and garden. The stables will be instructed not to give you a horse, should you ask.”

  His face showed chagrin, then acceptance. “But, for how long?”

  “We will see,” said Fenella.

  “Criminals get a set sentence in court,” said John, some of his rebellious spirit surfacing.

  “Would you like me to say for the remainder of your visit to Clough House?”

  “No! Never mind.”

  Fenella nodded. At the moment she was inclined to keep him under her eye until she sent him back to school. Hideous visions of telling her sister that her son had drowned at Lindisfarne were only now receding from her brain. She glanced over to see that John had lifted a corner of the napkin covering the basket she’d brought. “There’s cakes in here,” he said.

  “Yes, for Mrs. Dorne. Who’s ill. And old.”

  “Oh.” He let the napkin drop. They moved on along the road. John pulled Roger’s coat closer around him. “It’s just that I’m so hungry,” he added. “The water was dashed cold. And I’ve had nothing to eat since breakfast.”

  Having seen the prodigious amounts of food this one small boy could consume, Fenella relented. “Go on then.”

  She expected him to dive in; instead, he signaled to Tom. When the older boy rode closer, John offered him the napkin filled with cakes. Tom took some with thanks and a grin. Only then did John devour one of the small pastries, in two enormous bites. “Good,” he mumbled around the large mouthful. In a remarkably short time, the basket was empty.

  They reached the turn where they would separate to go to their different houses.

  Fenella noticed that John was shivering harder. The wind had come up, cooling the August day, and clouds threatened rain. She slapped the reins to hurry the gig along.

  “I’ll come along with you to retrieve my coat,” Roger said to Fenella.

  “I can bring it, my lord,” said Tom. “I’ll be returning the horses.”

  Roger looked thwarted. He was an attractive sight in his shirtsleeves, Fenella thought. It would be pleasant to have him riding along at her side. But John was her first priority right now.

  “The bishop is calling on your mother today,” said Lord Macklin. His face as he looked from Roger to Fenella showed remarkably acute curiosity. “We promised not to leave her to entertain him alone.”

  Roger didn’t curse, but he looked as if he would have liked to. He spurred his horse up to John’s side of the gig. “There’s no harm in searching for adventures,” he said to Fenella’s nephew. “You’ve a bold spirit. You’ll learn to manage them better.”

  John perked up. That had been kind, Fenella thought, particularly after their last prickly encounter.

  Roger gave her a look that warmed her down to her toes before he dropped back and turned with Macklin toward Chatton Castle.

  Their smaller party hastened to Clough House, where John was bundled up to his room to change clothes. Fenella went to her own room to shed her riding habit. When she left it, and passed her father’s bedchamber, she was surprised to hear John’s voice within. Her nephew wasn’t usually eager to visit his grandfather. Yet he was in there. The door was ajar; his tones were plain. Fenella paused to listen.

  “And then the tide came pouring over the sand,” John said. “It felt like a huge hand pushing against my legs. I could hardly stand up. But I knew if I fell, the water would sweep me out to sea. So I leaned against the current and stepped very carefully, even though I’d twisted my ankle.”

  “That was brave of you,” said her father.

  “Well, Tom helped me. I couldn’t have done it without him.”

  “Did he?” The old man’s voice had taken on the vagueness that meant he didn’t recognize the name. “Who are you?” he added.

  “I’m your grandson,” John replied with a touch of indignation.

  “Oh. Are you?” he replied. Fenella could imagine the frown of bewilderment on her father’s face. She saw it more and more these days. But this time he retrieved some information. “Greta’s son? Or Nora’s?”

  “My cousin Frederick is only four years old!”

  “Who?”

  “Greta is my mama.”

  “So you’re a Symmes?”

  “John Symmes.”

  “Eh. I thought Greta’s son had some silly grand name. Sanford or the like.”

  “Sherrington,” answered the boy with loathing.

  “That’s it. A ridiculous mouthful. Thought so when I first heard.”

  “I hate it!” said John.

  “Good for you.”

  “They refuse to call me John at school,” the boy added.

  “Tell ’em your father won’t pay their fees unless they do,” replied Fenella’s father. Outside the door, she smiled.

  “But that isn’t true.”

  “Are they likely to ask him?”

  There was a short silence. Fenella could almost hear John thinking this over. “Probably not,” the boy said finally. “They wouldn’t want to risk annoying him. Papa can be quite cutting when he’s angry.”

  “I remember that about him,” said the old man dryly. “Wondered a bit when Greta… Well, never mind. At least Greta’s not a sour spinster like Fenella.”

  “What do you mean? Aunt Fenella’s a great gun. She’s been very kind to me. And fair as fair. She doesn’t even mind snakes.”

  Not precisely true, Fenella thought. But she was touched.

  “Snakes?” said her father. “Well, it’s true she’s not afraid of much. Not afraid of me. She’s stubborn though. Willful as a wildcat.”

  “I think she’s splendid.”

  “Do you? Ha.” There was another pause before her father said, “You might be right.”

  Blinking back tears, Fenella continued on her way.

  Ten

  Sitting on what had become their habitual bench in the garden, Arthur and his hostess watched the master of Chatton Castle pace up one path and down another. He walked quickly, head bent, hands clasped behind his back. Though he’d greeted them when he first appeared, he seemed to have forgotten them almost at once. “I’ve rarely known Roger to be so preoccupied,” said Lady Chatton.

  “When I bid him good day at breakfast, he said, ‘That remains to be seen,’” replied Arthur. “Then he refused my company on a ride and rushed out.”

  “Oh dear. How rude.”

  They eyed the subject of their speculations.

  “His solitary expedition doesn’t seem to have pleased him,�
� Arthur observed.

  “No, I would say he’s…brooding. Yes, that’s it.” She nodded.

  “A problem, do you think?”

  “He seems to think he has one,” Lady Chatton answered.

  “I have a notion it’s to do with Miss Fairclough.”

  “Perhaps we should ask him about it.”

  “I don’t think he’d like that very much.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Arthur rose and offered his arm. Roger’s mother looked up at him. Then, blue eyes twinkling, she stood and joined him.

  Roger kicked at a pebble that lay in the middle of the garden path. It flew off the toe of his boot, struck the trunk of an elm, and bounced back. Fenella hadn’t appeared for her ride today. Granted, she hadn’t promised to come. And she’d told him from the beginning that the demands of her father’s illness might keep her in sometimes. Understandable. But he longed to see her. Alone, as they’d been at the raspberry thicket, not surrounded by servants and lads with snakes and her gloating father at Clough House. Mr. Fairclough would gloat. There was no doubt about that.

  He turned, and started in surprise. His mother and his noble houseguest were standing in his path, looking brightly inquisitive. Like foxhounds testing a scent, he thought. And then nearly said nonsense out loud.

  “Did you have a pleasant ride?” asked Macklin.

  “No,” said Roger.

  “That’s too bad,” replied his mother. “Why not?”

  He should have said yes, Roger realized. Now he had to think of a reason to fob them off. He flailed about mentally, until it occurred to him that excuses weren’t really necessary. His intentions were clear. He had no nefarious plan. And he could trust the discretion of these two absolutely. Perhaps he should simply ask their advice. He met his mother’s interested gaze, then Macklin’s. A man couldn’t ask for more sympathetic listeners, or wiser ones. “You like Fenella Fairclough, Mama.”

  “I do indeed,” she replied.

  “You wanted me to marry her five years ago, when Papa was urging it.”

  “I did at first, but it would have been a mistake.” She shook her head. “The people you were then wouldn’t have gotten on well together.”

  That was true. Mainly because of him, Roger thought. But Fenella, too. “We’re different now,” he said. “Both of us.”

  His mother nodded, watching his face.

  “So the case is altered.”

  “Are you saying you want to marry her now?”

  “Yes. You’ll say I made a great fuss about nothing in that case,” Roger replied. “And wasted a deal of time and…emotion.” Mr. Fairclough certainly would. He knew Fenella dreaded that.

  “I won’t.” Her eyes were sympathetic. “We can only do our best at any given time. Hindsight is deceptive.”

  He hadn’t known much five years ago, Roger acknowledged silently. A load of difficulties had educated him since then.

  “She seems a very appealing young lady,” said Macklin.

  “I’d be delighted to welcome her into our family,” said Roger’s mother.

  They spoke as if the match was settled just because he desired it. “I’m not sure what she wants though.”

  “But you have some reason to think she feels the same?” asked his mother.

  He couldn’t tell them about the kisses. He wouldn’t expose Fenella that way. “I believe so, but…circumstances intervened before I could ask her.”

  “What sort of circumstances?” asked Macklin.

  “Her nephew. Snakes.”

  “Snakes!” his mother exclaimed.

  “The pursuit of snakes.” Roger strove to recall the conversation that came after their embraces. He’d been muddled by desire. And anger at the interruption. “She said I should take time to think. And be certain.” She’d mentioned Arabella. Roger winced.

  “And have you?” asked his mother.

  “Have I what?”

  “Thought? Now that the situation has…cooled.”

  Could she read his mind? Of course not. But Roger flushed at the memory of lying with Fenella in the grass. “I’m certain she’s the bride for me.”

  “Well then, you must ask her, and find out if she feels the same.”

  “She might appreciate a formal offer,” suggested Macklin. “On your knee, you know. Ladies like that.”

  “Do we?” said Roger’s mother with a smile. “You seem to know a good deal about it.”

  “Pure hearsay,” answered Macklin. They smiled at each other like firm friends.

  This was a good idea. He could do that. “I’ll go to Clough House now.”

  “No time like the present,” said Macklin.

  Scarcely seeming to hear, Roger rushed off.

  “There seems to be no need for a push,” Macklin added when the younger man had disappeared into the castle.

  “Not at the moment.” Lady Chatton shrugged. “We must see how he does.”

  “You think there will be problems?”

  “Roger isn’t eloquent. His tongue can get in the way of what he wishes to say.”

  “Sincerity counts for a good deal in these matters,” said Macklin.

  “When did you become an expert on matrimony?” She laughed at his wry expression. “I shall love having Fenella for my daughter-in-law. How odd that it should come out this way. Raymond would—”

  “Laugh?” Macklin suggested.

  “No. He’d be odiously smug. As will Mr. Fairclough. I hope he can restrain his gloating until the match is secure.”

  “Surely he couldn’t spoil it?”

  “You might be surprised.”

  * * *

  Simpson came hurrying down the upper corridor of Clough House toward Fenella. “Your father’s asking for you again, miss.”

  He’d had a bad night. He’d tried to get up and go outside three times. And when he couldn’t manage to move from the bed, he’d filled the air with shouted profanity, convinced that an enemy had imprisoned him with invisible bonds. Fenella had helped the valet and William grapple with him, and been excoriated for her trouble. It was lowering to be so roundly cursed by one’s own father.

  The struggle had left her tired and made her feel that tears were hovering at the back of her throat. It was so difficult to watch Papa’s vitality and understanding draining away with each passing day. She often felt alone with the melancholy and helplessness, despite the staff in the house. They counted on her to be in command, to react with calm good sense. There was no one to confide in, no place to take her worries and doubts.

  Roger would listen, she thought suddenly. If she told him, he’d concentrate all his attention on her concerns. He would tell her she was doing splendidly, that the estate was in prime shape under her management, that her father was fortunate to have her at his side. And then he would urge her to rely on him. She could almost hear him becoming tangled in words, trying to convey these two different sentiments at once. The idea made her smile. He was a man of action rather than speech.

  Which took her back to the raspberry thicket and the brief time she’d spent in his arms. Too brief. She’d mused on it, dreamed of it. When she saw him again, they would find some time to repeat those dizzying kisses.

  He would call today, surely? He’d been so eager to speak. A cold chill went through Fenella at the possibility that he’d changed his mind. But of course she didn’t want him if he’d changed his mind. Except she did want him, desperately.

  “There you are,” her father said when she entered his room. “Where do you get to? I’ve been wanting to speak to you.”

  She’d been with him not half an hour ago. But he didn’t remember such things these days.

  “You must do something about Nora’s temper, Mary.”

  He thought she was her mother. Fenella didn’t even resemble her. Greta looked much
more like their departed parent.

  “She was screaming with rage in the stables,” he continued. “Over some triviality about her pony. You must take steps to curb her. She was truly excessive.”

  Like you, Fenella thought silently. Many had noticed this similarity between her father and sister. She didn’t remember this particular instance, but Nora’s capacity for anger was famous. Or infamous.

  “This is your area, Mary,” he said. “You produced all these daughters. You must do something. Get them in hand!”

  “I’m Fenella, Papa,” she said. “Mama has been dead for eight years.”

  He blinked at her, eyes bleary. For a moment he looked frightened and confused; then his mouth tightened and turned down. “Of course I know that. Third daughter. Not the charm.”

  And so they were back to the somber present.

  “A good shot though,” he continued, to Fenella’s surprise. “Greta wouldn’t hold a gun, and Nora was too hotheaded to take proper aim. But you were a different matter. Used to tell them at my club how you shot the pip out of the ace of spades. Twice, so it wasn’t a fluke.”

  Had he actually been proud of her skill? Fenella didn’t remember him saying so to her. But it warmed her to know that he’d praised her to others.

  “Had those two decks put away somewhere. What’s become of them?”

  Fenella had no notion. Had he actually kept them as proof of her marksmanship? She blinked back the hovering tears.

  “It was almost like having a son,” her father finished.

  And thus he spoiled the moment, she thought. Why must he always do so?

  He was frowning at her. “If you’d just been born a boy, all would have been well.”

  Something in Fenella snapped. “All?” she repeated. “What does that mean, precisely? Mama wouldn’t have sickened and died so young? Nora would be meek as milk? Last year’s grain harvest wouldn’t have been spoilt by a hailstorm? You wouldn’t be ill now?”

  His head wobbled in a sort of half negative. His good hand twitched on the coverlet. Feeling guilty for her outburst, Fenella saw the thread of the argument leave him. His eyes grew vague. “Where’s Chatton gone?” he said.