What do you want from life?
It haunted him, that question—had been haunting him ever since Marjorie had first asked it of him aboard the Neptune. Or perhaps it had been haunting him ever since he’d last stood here, and he’d spent the past ten years running from it.
He moved, he wandered, but it wasn’t out of some zest for adventure, and it wasn’t even in a search to replace what he’d lost, not really. The truth was much less romantic. His restlessness came from fear: if he stood still, he feared he’d stop moving altogether, sink into the life of apathy, privilege, and ennui so common in the British upper classes, a life where things like which fork to use and which invitations to accept took on crucial significance and one had nothing more important on one’s calendar than visits to the tailor, whist at the club, and chasing down hapless foxes at the country house.
He had the money for that life, certainly, but unlike Marjorie, he didn’t want it. He wanted something else—something more, and though it seemed as elusive as a rainbow’s end or a mirage on a desert horizon, he knew he wouldn’t find it standing here.
Turning around, he walked back to the cab. “Where can a man obtain an underdone porterhouse, a plate of chips, and a pint of good ale in London these days?” he asked the driver.
“Black Swan’s just up around the corner, guv’nor. On the High Street. Best beefsteak in Holborn.”
Jonathan pulled another sixpence out of his pocket, handed it up, and ignoring the driver’s profuse thanks, he started toward High Holborn. Behind him, he heard the snap of reins, the clatter of wheels, and a moment later, the hansom rolled past him up the street.
As he followed in its wake, Jonathan had the curious, nagging sensation that he’d left something undone. He stopped, realizing what it was, and why he’d really come here.
Slowly, he turned to look back over his shoulder to the lace-curtained upstairs window.
“Good-bye, Papa,” he said. “Godspeed.”
With that, he once again turned his back on his father’s house, his grandfather’s unfulfilled ambitions, and his own lost dreams. He did it not with rancor or resentment, but with relief, and he knew at last that the past was truly behind him.
The question he had to face now was what to do with his future, and he suspected finding an answer to that was going to be much harder than letting go of the past.
Chapter 17
Marjorie’s reunion with Dulci and Jenna had been delightful, reliving days at Forsyte and laughing about their escapades there, but in the days that followed tea at Claridge’s, she rarely saw either of her old friends. Their social calendars for the remainder of the season were already filled, and their circle of acquaintances was an entirely different one from Irene and Clara.
In addition, Marjorie’s mourning period prevented her from attending any significant social events, so as the days of June went by, her path crossed very little with that of her friends, but both of them promised to attend the house party for her birthday in August.
She was able to participate in some of the season’s activities, however, thanks to Irene, Clara, and Rex’s cousin, Hetty. Due to their efforts, Marjorie attended teas, paid calls, shopped, and went to picnics, Afternoons-At-Home, several small dinner parties, the theater, and the opera. Marjorie enjoyed her new life, although after a lifetime of no society at all, she found the pace a bit overwhelming. Had she fully participated in the social whirl as the debutantes did, she’d have been exhausted by it.
As for Jonathan, she saw him every day. They made small talk across the breakfast table every morning and over sherry nearly every evening. She listened with the members of his family to his stories of life on the American frontier. He was cordial and attentive and scrupulously polite, and yet, she felt as if there was a wall between them. They never sparred, they never disagreed. When she asked his opinion, he gave it, but he never tried to tell her what to do, what to wear, or who to see. Their conversations were amiable, as those between friends should be, and yet, they always had the curious result of leaving Marjorie unaccountably depressed.
Not once did she see in his face what she’d seen at Claridge’s. Not once did she catch him watching her in the way that made her lips tingle and her heart race, and as the days passed, she began to wonder if what she’d seen at Claridge’s had been nothing but her imagination. Even their passionate kiss aboard the Neptune seemed now like nothing more than a wild, fevered dream.
By the day of Irene’s water party, Marjorie was tempted to do something wildly outrageous just to see if she could get a rise out of him, but she refrained, for she didn’t wish to embarrass her hosts or hurt her newfound social position. And what would be the point? It wouldn’t change anything.
To prepare for the water party, the duke and his brother left before breakfast, wanting to look over the Mary Louisa and make certain the crew had the vessel ready for the day’s excursion, and Jonathan chose to accompany them. Irene did the same, having preparations of her own to make as hostess, so when it was time for Marjorie and Carlotta to depart for Queen’s Wharf, it was Rex and Clara’s landau that rolled up in front of the house to fetch them.
The landau’s top was rolled back to the fine July morning, but one glance at the couple in it told Marjorie not everyone was in a sunny mood.
“I still think you should talk to him again,” Clara was saying to Rex in an insistent tone as Marjorie and Carlotta approached the vehicle. “We both know—”
She broke off to give Marjorie and her sister-in-law a nod of greeting as Torquil’s footman assisted them into the carriage, then she returned her attention to her husband and their conversation. “We both know how persuasive you can be when you choose. If you presented the offer another way—”
“Clara, he doesn’t want it,” Rex said and looked up at his driver as Torquil’s footman closed the carriage door. “Walk on, Kettridge. Good morning, ladies,” he added as the footman stepped back and the vehicle pulled away from the curb.
“He doesn’t know what he wants,” Clara muttered with a toss of her head. “That’s obvious.”
“It’s equally obvious he knows what he doesn’t want, as I’ve already told you multiple times now.”
“But Deverill Publishing is his company, too,” Clara said, making Marjorie realize they were talking about Jonathan. “And since we don’t even know yet what his duties might encompass, I don’t believe he can be as decided about it as he seems. And,” she added, overriding her husband as he tried to speak, “I don’t see why you’re so adamant about not talking to him further.”
“Well, now, what’s this?” Carlotta asked as she opened her parasol over her head. “I hope you two aren’t having a quarrel on such a lovely day?”
It was a clear attempt to change the subject to something less personal, but Clara seemed in no frame of mind to take the hint. “A disagreement isn’t a quarrel,” she said, giving her sister-in-law a somewhat impatient glance before returning her attention to her husband. “Maybe I should talk with him. Ask him to reconsider.”
“Guilt him into staying?” Rex countered. “Yes, that sounds like the perfect plan. It worked so well last time.”
“That’s not fair,” Clara replied. “I never used guilt to try to make Jonathan come home. Never. And I wouldn’t now.”
“You never used guilt deliberately, I’ll grant you that. Either way,” he rushed on before she could dispute the point, “I advise against it. You might make things worse.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Don’t you, my darling?” Rex laughed. “I know what it’s like when you open up those big round eyes of yours and ask for something. Saying no to you then is like trying to hold back the tide. But participating in Deverill Publishing isn’t what he wants, and if he gave in, I think he’d regret it.”
“You offered Jonathan a place in Deverill Publishing?” Marjorie asked, jumping into the conversation before she could resist, remembering too late that her guardian’s life had nothing
to do with her. “Sorry,” she added at once. “It’s not my business.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” Clara assured her. “If we wanted to keep it a secret, we wouldn’t be talking about it. We asked Jonathan to take an active role in the company, yes.”
“And he refused,” Marjorie said, the words bitter on her tongue.
“He did,” Rex confirmed, giving his wife a meaningful glance. “And Clara,” he added, “if you love your brother and want to maintain the peace you two have achieved, I’d advise you to accept his decision with grace, and support him in whatever he does decide to do. You can’t force him to stay where he doesn’t want to be.”
Marjorie had known that all along, of course, but hearing someone else say it out loud hurt more than she’d thought possible, and she was relieved when the other woman dropped the subject.
Carlotta stepped tactfully into the silence with a comment about how outrageous the hats at Ascot had been this year, and for the remainder of the ride to Queen’s Wharf, she was able to keep the conversation on inconsequential topics like fashion, the delicate state of the elderly Queen’s health, and the weather.
“It looks to be a gorgeous day on the water,” she told Marjorie as Rex’s carriage halted by the pier where Torquil’s yacht was moored. “And the wind seems just right, too, thank heaven,” she added as she and Marjorie followed Rex and Clara along the quay toward the duke’s waiting yacht. “If the breeze is too light, we usually have to cancel.”
“Not always,” Clara said over her shoulder with a laugh, indicating that her good mood had been restored. “Remember last year, Carlotta, when we decided to chance it and we found ourselves becalmed at Kew? We had to be towed back by a steamer.”
“I’d rather have that than the other,” Carlotta said as they started up the gangplank. “If the breeze is too strong, all the ladies go home with headaches because of our hat pins.”
“As a man, I take a different view,” Rex said as he stepped aboard and turned to assist his wife. “With a strong breeze, the ladies’ skirts blow up, giving gentlemen the opportunity to admire the pretty ankles of our wives.”
“Which does you no good at all, darling,” Clara replied as she grasped his hand and stepped on deck, “if your wife has a headache.”
They all laughed at that valid point as Rex guided Marjorie onto the ship, where Irene was waiting to greet them, a footman beside her with a tray of filled champagne flutes.
“Welcome aboard the Mary Louisa,” the duchess said as she handed Marjorie a glass.
“Irene, your husband is shameless,” Clara put in as she also accepted a glass of champagne. “He’s roped our brother in to help, I see.”
Marjorie turned and saw Jonathan seated over the point of the bow, his long legs dangling on either side. His jacket off, his shirtsleeves rolled back, and a cap shading his eyes, he looked completely at ease as he knotted rope, securing the sail.
“You know how it is with Henry,” Irene said. “Any man aboard can be pressed into service.”
“True,” Clara agreed, “but Henry doesn’t usually let anyone handle the sails who isn’t experienced.”
“Well, Jonathan has some experience,” Marjorie commented. “He was a fishing boat captain once.”
“He was?” Clara and Irene said simultaneously, and when Marjorie looked at them, she found both his sisters staring at her in surprise.
“It was when he first went to America.”
“Well, that’s one story we’ve missed hearing over the dinner table, haven’t we?” Irene said, then glanced past Marjorie’s shoulder. “Ah, I see more guests coming up the gangplank, if you’ll pardon me?”
Marjorie and the others moved out of the way, leaving Irene to greet the next group of arrivals. Rex went in search of David to see how he could help, Carlotta ensconced herself in a deck chair, and Clara and Marjorie walked toward Jonathan in the bow.
“Look at you, sailor,” Clara greeted him as they approached, causing him to look up from his task. “Decided to do an honest day’s work for a change, have you?”
He straightened, grinning at his sister. “Says the woman who’s sipping champagne and doing anything but working.” He paused and pulled off his cap to wipe sweat from his brow with his wrist. “Still,” he added as he settled his cap back on his head, “the two of you look so pretty, I can’t complain.”
It was a compliment, but a glib and impersonal one, the sort he might have given any female acquaintance, and to Marjorie, the invisible wall between them seemed more impossible to breach than ever.
“That’s why,” he went on, still smiling at his sister, “I haven’t the heart to point out how lazy you’re being.”
“Lazy?” Clara cried, giving a huff of mock aggravation. “Well, I like that. I don’t think we need to listen to any more of my brother’s backhanded compliments. C’mon, Marjorie. I shall give you a tour of the ship.”
Marjorie turned and started to follow, but then, she glanced back at Jonathan, thought of Rex and Clara’s conversation about him in the carriage, and changed her mind. “You go ahead,” she told the other woman. “I’ll be along in a minute.”
Clara gave a nod and continued back toward midship, and Marjorie turned to Jonathan again. Occupied with his task, he seemed oblivious to her presence, but she spoke anyway. “I understand Clara and Irene offered to bring you back into the company.”
He didn’t even look up. “Yes.”
“But you turned down their offer?”
“I did.” He tied off the knot, grabbed a bit of rigging, and hauled himself upright. Balancing on the point of the bow, he swung around the sail he’d just secured and slid back down to secure another.
“But why?” she cried, spurred on rather than deterred by these taciturn responses. “Your father’s gone, so you wouldn’t have to worry about his interference. And coming back into Deverill Publishing would give you back what you lost.”
His hands stilled. “Nothing can do that,” he said and glanced past her. “You’d best go,” he advised and returned his attention to his task. “Clara’s waiting for you.”
It was a clear dismissal, and it stung, making her suck in a sharp breath. So much for smashing down walls, she thought and turned away, wondering why she’d even bothered to try, but she’d taken only two steps before his voice stopped her. “Marjorie?”
She forced herself to look at him, pride keeping hurt at bay. “Yes?”
“You should keep your parasol up,” he said.
She blinked, startled by such an unexpected remark. “What?”
“Your parasol.” He nodded to the ebony-handled concoction of white linen, black ribbon, and mauve lace in her hand. “The sun’s brutal on the water, and that little boater you’ve got on won’t do a thing to protect you. Your skin is so—”
He broke off, swallowed hard, and looked down, forming a knot with the rope in his hands. “Your skin is fair, and you’ll burn if you’re not careful.”
It was the first truly personal thing he’d said to her in days, and she was so astonished and relieved, it took her a moment to think of a response. “This is a bit like old times,” she said, laughing as she opened her parasol over her head. “You advising me about my wardrobe. It reminds me of our days on the Neptune. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
One word, and yet, the intensity of it was like a shot, reverberating through the air between them. He looked up, and when he did, she almost dropped her parasol, for in his face was everything she’d seen at Claridge’s.
Her body responded at once. Warmth pooled in her midsection and spread outward, her lips tingled, and her heart gave a leap of pure, unreasoning joy in her chest.
But then, as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone, and he continued his work as if nothing had happened, making it clear the wall between them was still very much in place.
She waited a moment, but when he made no effort to continue the conversation, she gave up and walked away, vowi
ng not to waste a single moment of what promised to be a glorious day worrying about him.
As the day went on, however, she found it a hard vow to keep, for with each hour that passed, it became more painfully obvious that no matter where she was, he wanted to be someplace else, and it left her feeling both baffled and hurt.
One would think that on a hundred-foot yacht, avoiding a particular person for an entire day would be impossible, but somehow, Jonathan managed to avoid her. If he wasn’t up at the helm with Henry, or helping David and Rex, he was playing checkers with Paul, or laughing with Hetty, or talking with any number of the other forty guests aboard.
Marjorie’s considerable pride enabled her to hide the sting of being so obviously and inexplicably snubbed, but it wasn’t until midafternoon, when the Mary Louisa was starting back to Queen’s Wharf, that she was able to finally quell the hurt. She stopped scanning the deck looking for him among the crowd, she gave up wondering what had gone wrong with their newfound friendship, and she decided that if he wanted a wall between them, that was just fine with her. It was at that point that she finally began to enjoy herself.
When some of the other ladies set up shuffleboard on the port side, she joined in, glad there was no Lady Stansbury to frown in disapproval. When Henry explained navigation to her, she listened eagerly, and when he offered to let her take the helm, she happily steered the ship all the way from Chiswick to Battersea Park before Henry made her give it back.
“You are proving an excellent sailor, Marjorie,” Clara said as Marjorie joined her and several other ladies who were sitting in deck chairs under the shade of a tarp. “You might have been born to it. The first time I tried to steer the ship, I almost ran us aground, and it was the next summer before Henry let me take the helm again. I—”
Heiress Gone Wild Page 21