Marigold's Marriages

by Sandra Heath

  Chapter Five

  Mist threaded eerily between the trees of Windsor Great Park as the old ostler maneuvered the hired trap off the road, and drew the pony to a standstill by a tall hawthorn hedge that was still heavy with late blossom. Dew shone on the leaves, the dawn light was silvery, and the chorus of birdsong was deafening.

  The ostler resented being aroused from his bed at such an hour, and so made no effort at all to assist Marigold to alight. Then, after pointing rather churlishly in the direction of the Druid Oak, he huddled on his seat to wait. She gathered her shawl warmly around her shoulders, then caught up her lilac silk skirt to make her way through the long grass.

  She knew she shouldn’t have come here, but she just couldn’t help herself; after all, the duel had come about because of her. So, after tossing and turning most of the night, she’d been wide awake when Lord Avenbury’s curricle drove out of the yard, and the urge to follow him had proved too great. The mist swirled slightly, and for a moment the silhouette of an immense tree was dimly visible directly ahead, but then the gray veils closed in again, and there was nothing. Horses snorted, and the faint gleam of polished brasswork told her where Lord Avenbury—and presumably his seconds—were waiting. She couldn’t hear anyone talking, but supposed it to be because of the shrillness of the awakening birds. After going as close as she dared, she pressed back out of sight among the hawthorns.

  From here she could see that the Druid Oak stood at the edge of a small grove. On the way from the Spread Eagle, the ostler had been disposed to tell her the story of how it had gotten its name. It seemed that long ago a local blacksmith had accidentally interrupted druidic rites, and for his pains had been magically impaled upon a jagged branch. The branch still jutted strangely from the main trunk about fifteen feet above the ground, and mistletoe now grew in profusion where the unfortunate blacksmith had met his grim end. She knew the old man had been trying to frighten her, but right now, with the dawn mist still clinging between the trees, it seemed a little too real for comfort.

  More minutes passed, the morning chorus quietened, and the mist thinned noticeably. Now she could see Lord Avenbury quite clearly. He was lounging on the seat of the curricle about twenty-five yards away across the grove, with his long legs stretched out, and his boots resting on the rail. His arms were folded, his top hat was low over his forehead, and his head was bowed as if he were asleep. There was no one else with him, no seconds, no surgeon, just him.

  A robin suddenly flew down from the oak, and lighted on a hawthorn spray close to her. With each flutter of his wings she saw the unusual white feathers possessed by the robin at Castell Arnold, and also by the bird depicted in the painting at the inn. Anglesey was nearly two hundred miles away, and the painting was clearly rather old, so it couldn’t possibly be the same robin, and yet...

  She tried not to think it, but when the little bird paused and cocked his head to one side to look at her, she felt sure it was the very one that had inspired her to confront everyone at the reading of the will. She held out her finger, and sure enough, the little scarlet-breasted bird flew onto it. She looked at him. “Well, Robin, my friend, why did you bring the marigold and rowan leaf to me, hm? And why do you dislike Falk so much?” she whispered.

  The robin chirruped as if he understood, but then a carriage was heard approaching, and he flew off. Marigold kept well back amid the hawthorn, watching Lord Avenbury, who did not move even though he must also have heard the carriage.

  The clatter of hooves and wheels grew steadily more loud, and then suddenly the vehicle swept into the clearing, and came to a halt within ten yards of her. Birds were startled from the hedge and surrounding trees, some of them so close that Marigold was scattered with droplets of dew from the shuddering hawthorn blossom.

  The carriage door was flung open. Lord Toby, Sir Reginald, and two gentlemen unknown to Marigold alighted. If they turned, they could not help but see her, but they laughed and talked together as if arriving at a fashionable dinner party, and Sir Reginald, who clutched a bottle of cognac and some glasses, seemed to Marigold to be somewhat in his cups.

  One of the men carried a beautiful inlaid box containing a set of dueling pistols, which he opened for Lord Toby to take one out to examine. Then he placed the box on the grass in order to accept a glass of Sir Reginald’s cognac. They all three sipped a goodly measure, and glanced across at the curricle and its sleepy occupant, who still seemed asleep. After a moment they looked at one another, and then Lord Toby called out.

  “Hey, you, sir! Have the good manners to step down!”

  Slowly Lord Avenbury lowered his legs to the board, then sat up and moved his top hat back only a little, so that his face was still not fully revealed. “Are you talking to me, sir?” he replied, adopting the same mincing tones of the night before.

  The mockery provoked Lord Toby. “I’ll make you pay for your insults! Step down, I say!”

  “I’m always willing to respond to such an elegant avian beseechment,” murmured Lord Avenbury, humming to himself as he climbed slowly down from the curricle. Only then did he tip his hat back completely.

  The man who’d brought the box of pistols took an involuntary step backward. “Ye gods, Shrike, you’ve taken on Avenbury!” he squeaked, dropping his glass.

  Lord Toby went pale, but managed to display a little bravado. “It makes no difference to me whether it’s Avenbury or Beelzebub himself!” Handing his glass back to Sir Reginald, he made much of inspecting the pistol he’d selected.

  “But it isn’t time yet,” the third man warned in an undertone. Marigold could just hear him, but he was inaudible to Lord Avenbury.

  “Time?” Lord Toby’s eyes flew to his friend’s.

  “It cannot be now, or the wheel will not turn.”

  “This is a matter of honor!” breathed Lord Toby.

  “We have no choice. The wheel must come first. Think, man! Of all the men in England, this one must be safe!”

  Marigold listened bemusedly. No choice? Of all the men in England? What on earth was this wheel they kept referring to?

  Sir Reginald, who had been swaying drunkenly, suddenly put a hand on Lord Toby’s arm. “I—I say, Tobes, this is best left, don’t you think?” he said in a thick voice. “The c-candle snuffers just ain’t worth the candle, and George is right, the time ain’t right.”

  Lord Avenbury grew tired of their whispering. “We have business to attend to, Shrike!” he called.

  Sir Reginald hiccupped loudly, then looked at Lord Toby again. “I’ve s-said my piece. I’m not getting involved in this.” Turning, he walked unsteadily back to the carriage, and clambered inelegantly into it. The other two men exchanged glances, then followed him.

  Lord Toby suddenly found himself alone, with the pistol still in his hands. Clearly rattled, he turned to his opponent. “I—I may have been a little hasty, Avenbury,” he said after a moment.

  Lord Avenbury’s eyebrows twitched. “Come now, sir, we came here to fight a duel, and I’m ready to do precisely that.”

  “I—I, er ...”

  “Yes?”

  “I think this whole business is unnecessary,” Lord Toby said then. His face was quite pasty, and there was little trace now of the sneering bully of the night before.

  “Really? How is it unnecessary?”

  “I realize that—that I was completely in the wrong last night.”

  “Well, what a pity you did not think of saying it then, for I fear now is too late.” Lord Avenbury strode across the grass to take the remaining pistol from the box on the grass.

  Lord Toby panicked, and stumbled backward. As he fell, his finger closed involuntarily upon the trigger, and a single report shattered the silence. As the reverberations died away, Marigold was dismayed to hear her hired trap being driven hastily off as the ostler decided to distance himself from possible danger.

  Lord Toby sprawled where he fell, gazing up in terror at Lord Avenbury, who now cocked the other pistol. It was a menacing
sound.

  Lord Toby’s mouth was suddenly desert dry. “Sweet God above, Avenbury, I didn’t mean to—to ...”

  “No?” Lord Avenbury took pleasure in leveling the pistol.

  “For pity’s sake, spare me!” Lord Toby groveled before him.

  After a moment, Lord Avenbury raised the pistol, and fired it into the air, then tossed it into the box. “Get out of here, Shrike, and take your friend’s pretty weapons with you,” he said.

  Hardly able to believe he was to be spared, Lord Toby gathered the box and its contents, then scrambled back to the carriage, where his wide-eyed friends had witnessed everything. They almost hauled him inside, and the door had hardly slammed behind him before the vehicle drove off as if pursued by all the hounds in hell.

  Lord Avenbury turned toward the hedge. “You can come out now, Mrs. Arnold.”

  Chapter Six

  Horrified to realize Lord Avenbury knew she was there, Marigold emerged reluctantly from hiding.

  “I trust the spectacle just past wasn’t too indelicate for you?”

  “Er, no, my lord.”

  “Lord Toby can certainly thank his lucky stars for your presence, for otherwise I would certainly not have let him off so lightly.”

  She didn’t know what to say.

  There was a fallen tree nearby, and he went to lean back against it, still looking at her. “Why did you come here?”

  “I don’t really know.” Still clutching her shawl close, she went to join him. “Where are your seconds, Lord Avenbury? And why is there no surgeon?”

  “I saw no reason to bother with such niceties.”

  “If Lord Toby’s shot had found a mark in your elegant hide, such niceties could have saved your life!” She was appalled by his attitude.

  “My elegant hide? What a charming turn of phrase.”

  “I chose it because to my mind taking part in a duel without seconds or a surgeon shows an intelligence so limited that it verges on the bovine.”

  “Ouch,” he replied, grinning. “My, what a tongue you have, madam.”

  “I don’t think it funny, sir,” she said tersely.

  “So I notice.”

  “Nor should you, considering you might have just been killed.”

  “Come now, that’s rather an exaggeration,” he murmured.

  “Is it?”

  “Of course it is. Be sensible, Shrike’s shot was so wide of the mark that I doubt he even managed to hit the oak tree!”

  Annoyance stung through her. “Be sensible? Sir, I am not the one who just foolishly brushed with death.” Her tone was now very tart indeed.

  He was still amused. “I find your spirit most refreshing, Mrs. Arnold.”

  “And I find your cavalier tendencies irritating in the extreme.”

  “You don’t hold men in much estimation, do you?” he said after a moment.

  “You sex has done very little to endear itself to me,” she answered, smoothing trembling hands upon the folds of her lilac skirts, for in spite of her defiant sallies, she had been deeply upset by what had so nearly happened. Instead of being able to mock her like this, he could have been lying dead on the grass.

  He noticed the gesture. “You’re too fainthearted, Mrs. Arnold,” he said gently.

  “And you’re too careless of your own safety!” she replied angrily.

  Suddenly he seized one of her hands, and held it tightly. “Why did you really come here?” he asked.

  Surprised by his action, she tugged her hand away. “I’ve already told you I don’t know, and right now I wish I hadn’t.”

  “I’ll warrant that last is true, since I fancy your transport has departed without you.”

  She lowered her eyes. She’d forgotten the wretched trap. How was she going to get back to the Spread Eagle?

  “Rest easy, for I am more than happy to convey you,” Lord Avenbury said, almost as if he’d heard her thoughts. Then he paused. “Do you believe in destiny, Mrs. Arnold?”

  “Destiny?” The change of subject made her look up in surprise.

  “That our whole lives are written in the stars?”

  “No, I believe we are responsible for our own fate,” she replied, thinking that if anyone was nearly the author of his ultimate fate, he was.

  He searched her face. “Is that truly what you believe?”

  She wondered what lay behind his questions. “Yes, it is. Why do you ask?”

  “Because you intrigue me greatly, Mrs. Arnold.”

  “Lady Fernborough would not appreciate such an admission,” she replied, moving to get up, but his hand shot out to restrain her. “Tell me something else, Mrs. Arnold. What would you have felt if Shrike had killed me?”

  “I would have thought it a stupid waste.”

  “Of a noble soul?” He laughed.

  “Noble? How would I know whether or not you are noble? You may have championed my cause last night, and risked your life in defense of my honor here this morning, but what I have heard of you otherwise does not suggest you are someone who could be truly described as noble.”

  His eyes were compelling. “Do I detect the wagging of a puritan finger, Mrs. Arnold?” he asked softly.

  She didn’t reply.

  “And what if I were to similarly judge you? To me you seem a damsel in distress, and that is indeed what you would have me believe, but the Arnold family undoubtedly hold a very different opinion. Should I believe them?”

  “Oh, I do not doubt that you will ultimately take their side, Lord Avenbury,” she answered, thinking of Alauda.

  “Don’t presume you know me, Mrs. Arnold, for I promise you do not.”

  She met his gaze. “I do not need to know you, sir, I have only to remember that you are Lady Fernborough’s lover.”

  “Possibly, but you are the one I am asking to be my wife,” he replied quietly.

  The proposal caught her so completely off guard that she stepped hastily from the tree trunk as if it had suddenly burned her. “I—I beg your pardon?” she gasped, facing him.

  “Become Lady Avenbury, and all your problems will be solved.”

  “Sir, I think Lord Toby’s shot must have found a mark of sorts after all. Either that, or you are possessed of an addled brain!” she said.

  He straightened as well. Before she knew it, his left arm had suddenly shot around her waist, and his right hand was to her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “I am in earnest, Mrs. Arnold.”

  The warmth of his fingers stirred senses she had tried to forget, as did the masculine scent of costmary on his clothes. She could have rebuked him for his forwardness, and pulled away quite easily, but she didn’t.

  He looked deep into her wide green eyes. “Become my wife, and your worries will be at an end. You will lack for nothing, and your son will be amply provided for. I will also instruct my lawyer to make every possible investigation regarding the false will. If Falk Arnold’s villainy can be exposed, it will be.”

  She managed to overcome the spell he’d suddenly cast over her. “But why? What possible reason could you have for helping me so much?” she cried, pulling away at last. “Is it simply that you wish to goad Lady Fernborough?”

  “My reasons are my own, but believe me, I have nothing to lose.”

  “That is no answer, and you know it.”

  “Very well, perhaps it is simply that for once I wish to do something completely honorable.”

  She was mystified. “You see me as a salve to your conscience?”

  He smiled. “Don’t look for unnecessary answers, Mrs. Arnold. All you need be concerned with is whether or not you intend to look this gift horse in the mouth. Well, do you?”

  “You really mean it, don’t you?” It was a statement, rather than a question.

  “Mrs. Arnold, I am not in the habit of proposing marriage willy-nilly, indeed this is the first time I have ever done so.”

  “But I don’t even know your first name!”

  He released her. “That is easily remedied. M
y name is Rowan, and I’m the thirteenth Lord Avenbury.”

  Marigold stared at him. Rowan? Merlin’s riding accident had been caused by a robin flying from a rowan tree; and the robin had brought her a rowan leaf, and a marigold flower.... Suddenly her conviction about being in control of one’s own destiny didn’t seem quite as certain.

  He looked quizzically at her. “Is something wrong?”

  “Er, no, of course not.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it. Now, may I know your name?”

  “It’s Marigold.”

  He smiled. “Marigold?” he repeated.

  She colored again. “I know it’s a foolish name, but—”

  “I didn’t say it was foolish,” he interrupted quickly. “On the contrary, I find it quite charming. So, we are now fully introduced. The only other things you need to know about me are that I am wealthy, and completely at liberty to offer marriage. Oh, and that I would regard it as an honor to protect you and your son.”

  “Society would regard such a match as scandalous. The Arnolds have branded me a kept woman who has a son out of wedlock. Even supposing some people believe I really was married to Merlin, can you imagine with what shocked disapproval they would regard so hasty a second union?”

  “Chitter chatter is of no concern to me, nor should it be of concern to you. All you should consider is your son, and if you marry me, he will be amply provided for. Go your own way, and he will not.” Rowan paused, then added. “But before making your final decision, be warned that it will not be a marriage in name only. If you enter my life, you enter my bed as well.”

  Hot embarrassment rushed into her cheeks. “You are very direct, my lord.”

  He smiled, putting his fingertips briefly to her hair, which shone like spun copper in the translucent morning light. “I’m of a mind to enjoy your favors, Marigold.” He gave a low laugh. “Just think, we would be a flower and a tree against all those Arnold birds.”

  Suspicion lingered. Was it a trick? He was Alauda’s lover, so surely he had some ulterior motive for making such a dazzling offer! “But would you really be against them?” she asked.